Truth and Rings
by boredsvunut
Summary: This is the sequel to Rings and Truth.
1. Chapter 1

(Disclaimer: Not mine. Nothing in this bit of random creativity belongs to me. If any of it did, I wouldn't be living in middle-of-nowhere-ville Nova Scotia.)

(Summary: "Things have changed so much that I think we're both still reeling from it." This is the sequel to Rings and Truth.)

(A/n: I took this down, because I wasn't really happy with it. It was just dragging on and on and not going the way I wanted it to. I pulled it, so I could fix it. I wasn't happy with it. I rushed it the first time, because I was bored out of my mind. It happens, in a town the size of the one I live in.)

I glance at the woman sitting beside me, in the passenger seat of her car. We're headed home, after having dinner with my sister and brother-in-law. She's beautiful. She's the kind of woman who could walk into a room in a pair of sweats, sneakers and a t-shirt, without a speck of makeup on, and still turn the head of every man. I've seen it happen.

Right now, she doesn't look that bad. She's dressed in a button-down that's a deep shade of red, her heavy winter coat, a pair of jeans and the brown leather boots that she picked, for her birthday. I made her come with me, when I went shopping, because I didn't have any idea what to get her.

She's dressed casually, now, but when she decides to dress up, she can capture the attention of a whole room, just by walking in the door.

She's not one of the soft, blue-eyed blonde beauties that are all over the magazine covers. Her looks are more striking than pretty, with her dark hair and eyes and the strong, well-defined bones in her face, but she's capable of turning heads. Her clothes are in style, but she doesn't copy what's popular. She has her own taste. So you can't ignore her.

Most people would assume I'd be jealous. Jealous of the attention they pay to her, when we go out. But it just makes me proud to know that she's coming home with me. She's mine, now.

Things have changed so much that I think we're both still reeling from it. A year ago, we were just partners. Bound together by trust. And, then, one night, sitting on her couch, I looked at her and saw love in her eyes.

Not the kind of friendly affection that we used to share. She used to jokingly refer to me as the older brother she'd never had. It wasn't that. It went deeper than that

It shocked me, to see that in her eyes. I never would have expected that from her. I felt that way, but I'd had to hide it from her. For her to develop a romantic relationship with her partner would have been a huge blow to her career, if it had ever been discovered. And her career's important to her.

I fell for her, hard, the first day I saw her. Even as a married man, I couldn't help but notice her. I felt like a teenage kid, falling for the pretty, popular girl who sits in front of him in English. It was hopeless. I knew it. But I couldn't stop myself.

Besides the fact that I was married, she was carrying pain. Not just from her childhood, but from past relationships. I thought she'd just given up on falling in love, because she'd been hurt so often. I couldn't help but hear the stories traded among the guys, because most of the guys she dated were cops.

They said she was the Queen of the Ice Queens. That she was cold and distant and impossible to love. That she was heartless. That she'd lead a man on, until she got bored with him, and then, she'd walk away.

But I knew better. I knew her. I knew she wasn't like that. She had a heart. She'd just been hurt.

She was just waiting for someone to come along. Someone who'd treat her right. Give her what she deserved. I'd seen her compassionate side too many times to believe that she didn't have a heart in there.

I always thought that there was no way she thought about me. First off, I was married. She might have been single, but she respected a marriage. She was too proud to be the other woman, anyway. Second, she'd told me her 'rule' about not falling in love with someone she worked with.

But when I looked in her eyes and saw the love there, unmasked and open, I knew it had to be real. It had to be.

Things have changed, for us. She's never been a happy person, the whole time I've known her. But she's happy, now, in a way. She smiles a little more often, now. And any man would be glad to see that.

I think I'm the happiest I've been in a long time, with her. It's not that I didn't care about my ex-wife. I still do. She's the mother of my children. I'll always care about her, as a friend. But I honestly think we got married too young. When neither one of us were sure if we were ready to commit. Or if we were with the person we wanted to marry.

We're different people, she and I. We come from different backgrounds. Different families. But we just click, on some level. And we never had to build up any kind of trust. We already had it. When you feel that you can trust someone with your life, like we do, there's a bond there.

We had to sneak around and keep it hidden from everyone, but it was worth it. Being with her was worth it. Olivia's got this honest streak. She hated lying to the people in her life, but she did. She was more willing to lie than to lose her job. And we would have both been fired, if the brass found out.

We eventually decided we had to tell the boss. I think Cragen was on to us, anyway, by then. We knew he'd figure it out. He still has the mind of a seasoned homicide cop. He notices the little things and puts them together to make the big picture.

When we told him, I watched him look at us, startled. I don't think he ever expected that. Then, he told us he'd take care of it. He called in a few favors and filled out some paperwork. We're no longer 'officially' partners. The Department doesn't see us as partners, but we still work cases together, because Don doesn't want us spilt up. We're a team, she and I. And a good one.

Munch would drive either of us insane and splitting up Munch and Fin would take away the whole squad's daily comic relief. Olivia would have the patience to break in a rookie, but I wouldn't. So this was the only logical thing that could happen.

So we're allowed to date. Have a relationship. We can't get fired if the brass finds out. Don had to pull some strings for us, but I know he didn't mind. Besides being her commanding officer, he's become a father figure, to Olivia.

I can see it, when we're off the clock. On the job, he's just her boss. He doesn't cut her any slack. She'd hate it, if he did. But if we all go out to celebrate a good outcome on a case or something, they remind me of a father and his grown daughter.

I can understand the relationship and why it developed. When anyone really looks at my partner, you can see the ghost of a little girl. The little girl she never really got to be. She's told me stories of doing her own laundry and cooking for herself at the age of nine or ten. The age when most kids are carefree, playing with the kid down the block, with nothing to worry about.

She's told me stories of sitting up all night, waiting for her mother to stumble in the door, as a kid. All she wanted was her mother's attention. Some kind of affection. But she never got it. When you look at her, you can see the ghost of that hurting, crying little girl. And I think Don noticed that, in her.

We've just settled into an apartment, together. A couple of weekends ago, I came home early to find Olivia in the living room with a group of her girlfriends. She was laughing and talking, chatting with them. I'd never seen that before.

I didn't want to ruin it for her, so I left again, but I'd never seen her with her friends. When she's like that, no one would ever guess that she's a cop. They'd never guess what she sees everyday.

I knew her, but I didn't know her. I knew almost everything about her, down to her shoe size, but I didn't know anything. I didn't know the other side of her. The side of her that loves fun. The side that's willing to try almost anything once. I didn't know she laughed. I'd never heard her laugh. At least not when she was herself. There was so much about her that I didn't know. It surprised me.

I park the car in the space, behind the building. Olivia steps out of the car, shivering. She hates winter. She hates cold, in general. The clouds overhead are fat and grey. It looks like it's going to snow.

She comes around the front of the car and slips on a hidden patch of ice. I grab her arm, quickly, before she can go down, and slip my arm around her back.

I kiss her cheek, softly. "You all right?"

"Yeah." She pulls away from me, a little. "Now you know why I hate winter so much."

I keep my arm around her, as we walk into the building. She fumbles with her purse, looking for her key. The door swings open and she turns on the lights, as we step inside.

"Tonight was interesting," I comment, as she hangs her coat and scarf up, sitting to unzip her boots.

"Yeah." She smiles at me.

She was nervous about meeting my family. We're a big crowd, when we all get together. I was afraid they'd overwhelm her. I knew that a family was completely alien to her. She'd never even celebrated a holiday or a birthday with a family. Never mind just a dinner on a Sunday.

I didn't know if they'd accept her. How they'd respond to me getting divorced and dating her. We were all brought up in the church and were all taught by nuns. Some things do stick, even if you do try to be open-minded.

But they instantly warmed to her, when I brought her over to my brother's place one Sunday afternoon.

My sisters have become her new best friends. My nieces and nephews just saw her as a new playmate. The older girls were fascinated with her. Because she was older, like their mothers, but she was cool. She wasn't like their mothers, in a way.

My own kids, who have always liked her, are glad to have her around. I'm not really all that sure what Maureen thinks about this, but she and Olivia get along, which is something.

Kathleen sees her as an older friend, I think. Someone she can talk to, who isn't one of her parents. Someone who's a woman, who will see things differently than her mother does. At least she's talking to someone, because she's not talking to me. But I should know by now - teenagers don't talk to their parents.

And the twins worship her like she's some kind of hero. They adore her. I think Dickie's got a little bit of a crush on her, but I'm not saying anything. Lizzie follows her around, like a little shadow. It's because she's older, but she's not like her mother. She's different and she's cool.

"Un. Now you gotta help me up." Olivia extends a hand to me. I take her hand and pull, helping her up out of the chair. I keep her hand in mine, kissing her knuckles, softly.

She raises an eyebrow and shakes her head, walking across the room.

"What? It's worked for every guy in the movies," I protest.

She snorts. "You're a jackass, Stabler," she tells me, picking up one of the small decorator pillows from the couch and hurling it in my direction.

I duck, as it misses me by an inch. "You need to work on your aim," I tell her, grinning.

Olivia rolls her eyes at me. "Shut up."

"Now you're acting like Kathleen," I inform her.

She shakes her head and walks into the kitchen. I hear her start unloading the dishwasher and follow her, taking her hand in mine. She looks up. "What?" She smiles, slightly.

"Leave 'em," I pull, gently, on her wrist.

"Give me five minutes and I won't have to leave them," she protests.

"Liv," I kiss the top of her head and inhale the sweet smell of her hair.

"El," she whines back, grinning up at me. She's playing games with me. She's going to make me wait, one way or the other.

She goes to work putting the dishes away and I watch her. "What are you wearing?" I question.

She turns her head. "What?"

"Your perfume. It smells good. What is it?"

"Oh. That," she grins. "Christmas gift from a friend."

"You should wear it to work," I lean against the counter.

"Maybe. You know, you could be of some help here," she stacks the plates up in a cabinet and looks at me, pointedly.

I finally give in and help her put them away. Then, I take her hand and rub my thumb over the back of it, absently. Her skin's soft. Smooth as silk and soft. It's the kind of skin you'd expect a newborn baby to have. Not a grown woman.

She wraps her long fingers around mine, to make me quit. "What?"

"Your skin. What do you use?"

"Nothing," she kisses me, softly. "You should know that."

"I didn't," I pull her back for another kiss, but she shakes her head, smiling wickedly.

"I'm gonna shower, first," she tells me, pulling away.

She's playing games with me. She enjoys this form of torture. We haven't been alone for a couple of weeks, now. She's just trying to drive me crazy.

When she crawls into bed, she's cold. I know she's cold, because she burrows down into the covers, huddling into me. She nestles her face against the pillow, lying with her back against my chest.

She smells clean, now. I'm breathing in the scent of her soap and the flower-scented shampoo she uses. During the day, when she's not just out of the shower, she smells differently. The first thing I always pick up, when she walks by me or leans over my shoulder to read something, is her perfume. She doesn't wear a lot - just a hint of it.

She's been making the coffee in the squad room now for a few weeks. She and Munch had an argument about it, because he can't seem to master the simple skill of making a decent pot of coffee. So, now, she does it.

So when she rests her hand on my arm or takes something from me, I can smell the coffee on her hands. Sometimes, if she's just gotten a paper from the fax or the printer, I can smell the ink on her hands.

I feel her shift, beside me. She rolls over, until she's facing me. With the few streaks of pale light slipping through the cracks in the blinds, I can see her. "What?" I question, stroking her silky hair. When she washes her hair, the stuff she uses on it to style it comes out. It's soft, falling around her face.

"I'm cold," she murmurs, curling up into her typical ball, getting as close to me as she can. She tucks her face into my neck and sighs.

"I know you're cold. I told you, Liv, we could have moved and found a place with working heat," I reply. When we first started thinking about living together, we had a long, drawn-out debate about moving. Because our 'new' apartment is just a two-bedroom in the same building she was living in.

She sighs and pulls back a little to look at me. "Do you _really _think we would have found another place this big that we could afford? El, this is New York. A place like this, for what we're paying, is considered a miracle."

"I'd sacrifice a little space for heat," I answer.

She sighs, again, sounding more impatient. "The super's working on it," she murmurs.

"Yeah. I guess we can go the whole winter without heat," I reply, earning a glare.

"Shut up, unless you want to sleep on the couch," she warns, her voice changing from drowsy and half-asleep, to something more normal.

"You'd miss me if you made me sleep out there," I tell her, kissing her forehead.

"Yeah," she admits, quietly. "I would."

"Liv?"

"Hmm?" She rubs her eyes. "What?"

"Love you," I murmur. It felt strange, the first time I told her that. But it's true.

She nods in agreement and yawns. I smile slightly, and kiss her on the nose. "Goodnight, sleepyhead."

She yawns, again, in reply, and I shake my head.

(A/n: Well? You know what to do, right? I don't know what you're thinking if you don't tell me.)


	2. Chapter 2

(A/n: I just wanted to point this out - I'm switching back to run-of-the-mill Olivia's POV. I have a hard time writing the thoughts of a guy who's old enough to be my dad. Oh, yeah - one more thing - there's a spoiler for season five's "Poison" later in this chapter.

I'm bent over the mirror in the bathroom, showered and dressed for another day of work, when he finally gets out of the shower. Why do I always pick guys who aren't morning people?

He comes up behind me, and I pull away. "Don't touch me. If you do, I'll have to start all over again and we'll never get out of here on time," I inform him, struggling to get my eyeliner on half-decently. It's not like I work in an environment where people actually pay attention to how I look, but I like to know that I look good.

He rolls his eyes at me in the mirror, wrapped in a towel. "You know you don't need that, right?"

"You're blind if you think I don't," I reply, finally getting a straight line under my lashes. Thank God. "Only a man can honestly believe in this 'natural beauty' crap. You've seen me without makeup."

"And you look fine."

"I look like hell," I retort, picking up my toothbrush. "Go get dressed, or we're gonna be late."

"Liv, you know, it's not like Munch and Fin are gonna care if you have makeup on or not," he calls, from the bedroom. "I don't even think they'd notice."

"I'd notice," I call back. "Besides - it's the only real '_girl_' thing that I get to do for myself. I need something like this, before you guys forget that I _am _female."

"Like that's _ever _gonna happen," he snorts. "Olivia, any man who isn't _dead _sits up and watches you walk by."

"Jealous?" I retort with the question. "You're not gonna go all possessive on me now, are you?"

"No. Trust me. They're not gonna forget you're a girl any time soon."

I shake my head. "Shut the hell up, so I can brush my teeth."

"At least you don't do your makeup in the car," he comments, as we sit in a line of traffic. "Maureen does that and she usually makes a mess out of her face."

"If the city had the money to take care of the streets, it wouldn't happen," I reply. "There are way too many potholes in 'em."

"You're speaking from experience?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Yep. Used to do my makeup in the car all the time. You can pull it off if you want to sit in traffic for three hours." I shake my head. "When I was younger, I wasn't that much of a morning person. I figured out ways to get up late and still make it to work on time. But they usually involved doing my makeup in the car."

He shakes his head. "How do you do that here and _not _get killed?"

"Intersections," I reply, grinning. "Getting stuck in traffic like this. I figured it out. It's not hard, if you think about it."

There's not much going on at work, today. A case came in, not long ago, but Munch and Fin were next up, on the rotation. They caught it, and we're here.

"Liv," Elliot catches my attention, as I sort through the crap on my desk, looking for that one sheet of paper. I really need to clean up around here. I normally keep things neat, but I haven't had the time.

"What?" I look up, still distracted.

"What's today?" He probes.

"What?" I rub my forehead. "Don't play games with me today."

"Remember the MacPherson case?"

I sigh. Kelly MacPherson. She was twenty-two, when she was raped in her apartment. She was just a kid, from a small town in Pennsylvania who'd come to the big city to go to college. She'd be twenty-seven, now.

"Crap," I mutter. I hate these days. The day the Statute of Limitations ends. "Is today the day?" Five years goes by too fast.

We didn't tell her, because we wanted to keep her spirits up, but her case was pretty much hopeless from the start. She didn't have any enemies, any bitter ex-boyfriends - she barely knew anyone in the city. And the guy didn't leave us a damn thing. Nothing that could have traced him. No one heard or saw a thing. We worked it, like we do every case, but there was nothing else there to work.

"Yeah. You want me to call her?"

"Yeah," I nod. We'll go see her, to break the news. I won't tell women that over the phone and he's always gone along with me.

She's still in the city, living with a boyfriend. We find her apartment in Brooklyn and made our way up the stairs. I can't believe buildings in the city still don't have elevators.

The young woman from a small town who I first met in a hospital room has changed. I almost don't recognize Kelly, when she opens the door. She looks older. More mature. A little more confident.

She's dressed simply, in jeans and a t-shirt. "Detectives," she greets, tucking her light brown hair back behind one ear, as she lets us inside. "Did you find something?" There's hope in her face. In those green eyes that were so scared when I walked into that hospital room.

I hate this part. I really hate it. Having to tell them that some stupid law that they probably didn't even know existed stops us from arresting the son of a bitch. "There's a law - it's called the Statute of Limitations," I begin, quietly.

She nods. "Um-hm."

I finish what I'm saying, not even hearing my own words. She doesn't cry. I know she's upset, but she's angry. Different women, with different personalities respond differently, to this news. Some cry. Some are frustrated and angry, with the laws. And I can't blame them. They have every right to be upset and be angry.

Eventually, we leave, when she's on the phone with her boyfriend.

"You hate that, don't you?" Elliot asks the question, even though he knows the answer, as we walk out.

I huddle in my jacket. "Yeah. I do." I stretch and look up at the sky. It looks like it could snow in the next ten seconds. "I hate telling them that some stupid law stops us from arresting the son of a bitch."

"It's the law," he points out.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah. And it's stupid. There's no Statute on murder. You know as well as I do that when a woman's raped, part of her dies."

"If you wanna change it, find a lawyer and take it to Albany," he replies, pulling out the car keys. I know he gets what I'm saying. He's just trying to calm me down.

I slide into the passenger seat and shudder. It's colder in the car than it was outside.

"Should've left it running, huh?" Elliot remarks, turning the key in the ignition.

"Yeah. Whatever." I shrug. I'm not gonna mind the cold. This is when I hate my job. When a woman's been put through hell and the law that I'm sworn to uphold screws her over.

I was young, when the Statute went out on my mother's case. I don't think I was any older than four, but I do remember strange two men showing up at the apartment we were living in. She was still in school, so we were sharing it with her roommate and her roommate's boyfriend.

I remember seeing something shiny on one guy's coat, as a kid, sitting there, in a chair, watching the whole thing happen. I didn't know who they were or what was going on, but my mother was upset for days. Miserable. I remember her snapping at me. I remember her roommate taking me out, to get me away from her.

I never really understood what happened that day, until I figured it out, as an adult. As a cadet in the Police Academy. My birthday, my age at the time, and the date my mother had been raped. When I came across something in a book about the Statute of Limitations, I put it all together and I knew that the strangers that I'd seen as a four-year-old had to be cops.

We make the drive back to the precinct in silence.

I'm sorting out my desk, trying to get some things in order, when I feel eyes on me. I glance up at Elliot. "What?" I question, searching for that DD-5 I should have finished yesterday.

"Nothing," he grins. "You've got Grand Jury tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yeah. The Rourke case." I rub my forehead. "I swear, I spend more time in court than I spend here."

He shrugs. "You're about the only credible cop witness Novak has left."

"You aren't credible?"

"You don't have as much crap in your jacket as I do," he replies. "There's less stuff for the defense to throw at you. You didn't get cited for contempt and have your ass thrown in lockup."

I snort, remembering that. "If you'd kept your mouth shut"-

"Olivia, you weren't there. You would have done the same thing. Actually, I think you would have done something worse."

"Mouthed off to a judge? Nope. I wouldn't have done that." I shake my head. "When are you gonna learn? Sometimes, it's better if you don't say anything."

"You're smarter than I am." He holds up his hands in defeat.

"You remember that," I tell him, finally finding that sheet of paper. "Did you get Kathleen her birthday present yet?"

"No," he confesses, looking at me.

I shake my head in disgust. There are times when I think he might beat the stereotype. When he _won't _turn out to be the usual, wait-till-the-last-possible-minute-to-shop male. But he always does.

"Do you know what you're gonna get her?" I question, crossing one leg over the other.

"No."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. He's an intelligent man - no doubting that fact - but he still doesn't get it. If you do the shopping early, you don't have to worry about it at the last second.

After the first year we worked together, he started giving me his credit card to go out and buy a gift for Kathy or the kids. I didn't like the idea - buying gifts for his family that were supposed to be from him - but I did it, so I'd be able to work with him and not be miserable. A man in the doghouse is always impossible to deal with.

"Liv," he turns to me. "Would you"-

"No," I cut him off, flatly. "I'm your girlfriend, now. Not just your partner. I should get a little more respect, here. And, besides, I already went out and got her something - I'm not doing it again. Teenagers are impossible to shop for."

"You're tellin' me," he replies.

"Tell me this: when you worked with guys, did you send them out to do your shopping for you?"

"What do you think?"

"Then why did _I_ get the honor, huh? What makes me special enough to be your personal shopper?"

"You know why. You're a woman."

"Glad you noticed that," I retort. "Glad you were paying attention to me. But just because I'm female doesn't mean you can trust me to go out and shop for birthday gifts for your kids."

"Liv, shopping is _not _my thing," he persists.

"Do you think it's my favorite thing to do? Because I've got news for you - it's not. Not on my budget. You know your kids better than I do. You'll have an easier time if you go out and buy something for her, yourself."

"If you say so, Liv," he mutters, resigned to the fact that I'm _not _going to do his shopping.

"It'll mean more to her, knowing that you actually went out and bought it - you didn't send me to buy it for you. Trust me."

"I_ do _trust you," he replies. "Are you gonna help me, at least?"

"She's _your _daughter," I retort. "You know her better than I do. You'd have an easier time shopping for her than I would."

"I hate to break up the debate, you two, but you've got another one." Cragen cuts into the conversation, appearing silently beside our desks.

"What's up?" I shove my chair back.

"Mother came home from a business trip to Hartford - found her husband beating her kids around. He's their stepfather. Mom and the biological dad are there - unis are sitting on the stepdad, in the hospital."

"How are the kids?" I question. Jesus. I hate child abuse cases. Just like anyone else. You don't have to be a parent to hurt when you see a kid in pain. That just comes with being a decent human being, in my mind.

I'm thinking about cases like these for days, afterwards. I'm always wondering what kind of sick person could hurt a kid. Who the hell would _want _to hurt a kid? How could a parent hurt their own child?

"The younger girl's okay - a couple of stitches, but they say she's fine. The older one they're still patching up. Get down there." The boss hands me the pink slip and walks back to his office.

In the narrow, bright, hallway outside a room, we introduce ourselves to the mother and her ex-husband - the children's biological father. Then, we take the younger child into an empty exam room. And then we start the questions. Gently, of course, because she's just a kid.

The little girl - she's no more than seven or eight, perches in a chair, looking right at me, the cut above her right eye stitched closed and bandaged. She's bruised and I know she's been through hell, but she's still smiling. Revealing missing baby teeth. She's innocent. Never asked to be beaten.

Her mother, when we walk out of the room, instantly scoops up the child. A mother's instinct. When something happens, protect the kids. "I shouldn't have left them, but I couldn't miss that meeting." She wipes her eyes. "I didn't think he'd do this!"

She never thought her husband would turn out to be abusive toward her children. Never suspected this. Until she walked in on it. God. I offer her a few words, to try and calm her. The kids are usually calmer than the parents.

We wait, to get a story from the older girl. According to her little sister, she got the worst of it. When the doctor gives us the okay, I decide to go it alone. Someone needs to be out here, with Mom and Dad.

An older girl, who looks like a younger version of her mother looks at me, sitting on the edge of a cot. She's cradling a broken arm, in a cast and she's got a black eye and spilt lip. She's no more than twelve. Someone should do to her stepfather what he did to these two sisters.

She gives me the same story her younger sister did, after a bit of gentle probing. I start off by asking her about the cast - focus the attention on something like that, to make her relax. Tell her that she'd be swarmed by people wanting to sign it, at her school.

She tells me that they were in the kitchen, making lunch for themselves, when it started. They didn't do anything to provoke him - not that it would matter, anyway. The bruises and broken bones, along with their stories, will send this son of a bitch to prison. I don't care if Casey wants to plead him out. He's going in.

He'll suffer in prison, too. Murderers and rapists are usually left alone, in prison. But child abusers are pretty much bottom-of-the-food-chain. Even at the lockup at Central Booking. You say something about a child abuser at the lockup, and they'll turn against the guy you just brought in. They might even hurt him. I've seen it happen.

We make the collar and let him sit in the cage for a while. At least we were able to bring him in.

"Liv." Elliot touches my shoulder, as I finally get my desk somewhat organized. "Let's go home, huh? C'mon."

We have a late dinner at the deli a block and a half from our place, and then, we go home and set up the Scrabble board in the middle of the kitchen table. He's convinced that someday, he's going to beat me at this game.

It's corny, but it's fun. I get to show him that I actually do have a vocabulary. I was playing Scrabble with my mother's old roommate, who babysat me when my mother thought to get me a babysitter, when I was eight or nine years old.

I smirk at him, at the end of the game. "Beat you again. You ever gonna give up?"

"No," he replies, reaching for my hand, taking it in his own.

"I'm gonna go get a shower, and then, I'm going to bed." I get up and stretch.

"You okay?" He stops me, looking at me, with concern in his face.

"Yeah. Every time we get one of those cases, I"- I shake my head. "I always wind up thinking the same thing. What kind of sick person's gonna hurt a kid? Why? Especially if it's their own kid."

"Don't you think I ask the same questions?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah," I nod and lean up to kiss him on the cheek. "I guess it's just one thing we're not gonna be able to answer."

He hugs me, briefly, and kisses the top of my head. "Liv, if you wanna talk about it," he begins, quietly.

"I don't. I just always wind up asking myself those same damned questions, after something like that. I'm fine. And I wanna go to bed. Morning comes too damned early."

(A/n: Lemme know what you think. The Olivia doing Elliot's shopping thing - the only reason that's in here is because I saw a rerun of 'Chameleon' a couple of weeks ago and they kind of mention it. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Another slow day that's dragging on and on. I feel like a kid again, stuck in a classroom, when it's bright and sunny outside. I just want to be out of here. I've worked through a mountain of paperwork, rearranged things on my desk at least five times and, now, I'm reading through the notebook that I carry with me.

I go through about two of these a month. Because I got into the habit of writing a damned book on each case. It helps me, later on, when I have to testify or make a formal report, but it still annoys me. Why the hell do I feel a need to write so much about one case?

"Gonna publish that book eventually?" Elliot teases me, lightly.

I kick him, underneath our desks. "You don't mind the fact that I take decent notes when you have to look at 'em," I reply. "So I'd shut up."

"She's got you there," Munch puts in, on his way back from the coffee pot. "When they have you cornered like that, the best thing to do is shut up."

"Ah, the expert speaks," I reply to John's input into our conversation. I've learned how to trade jabs with him, over the years. "If you know so much, why'd you go through so many wives?"

"At least I know what _doesn't _work," he replies.

I shake my head. "You do, huh? Hate to break it to you, Munch, but we're not as complicated as you like to think. Figure that out and you'll make things easier on yourself."

"A person that can cry one minute, scream the next, and smile three seconds after?" John questions. "_That's _complicated."

"You know what? If you had to go through what a woman goes through - just _once _- you'd wanna do that, too."

"If only we could have the babies, right?" Elliot jumps in. "That's what my sisters were telling me, after the twins were born. That I had no idea what a woman goes through."

"I don't know. I'm no mother. So I can't speak for 'em," I reply. "And I'm not about to. But, seriously - if you had to go through it, just once, you'd get it."

"If she does anything, it's your fault," Elliot informs our ever-sarcastic, conspiracy-theorist colleague. "You got her started."

I tune out the banter and focus on the clock on the squad room wall. The minute hand is crawling forward at a slower pace than usual. And it usually moves pretty slow. It's worse than the clock that was in my high school history classroom.

And it's only Wednesday. Crap. If the clock's moving this slow now, what's it gonna be like on Friday? Friday's the day when the clocks move so slow that if they went any slower, they'd be moving backwards.

Munch once came up with a theory that the bosses set the clocks back on Fridays, to purposely torture us. The one paranoid theory from the mind of Munch that I agreed with. Cragen happened to overhear us discussing it, and the next Friday, he actually _did _set the clocks back on us.

It made a good joke, when we figured out what was going on, but now we know that some things shouldn't be said in earshot of a boss like ours.

"Liv?" Elliot catches my attention, coat in one hand, keys in the other, toward the end of the day. "I gotta go pick up the twins - they just wanna come over and hang out for a while. You wanna come or are you gonna go home?"

I stretch. "I've got a couple of things to finish - I'll be home by the time you get there," I promise, trying to find a way to sit that eases the kink in my back.

"Okay," he leans down and kisses my cheek, softly. We promised Cragen we'd keep it off the job, but the occasional peck on the cheek doesn't seem to bother anyone.

I finish up a couple of reports and neaten up a couple of case files, so they can be filed away. But my mind's on other things.

I knew dating would cause problems for us. In our careers. I knew I probably wouldn't get picked for a promotion, if it came out, but I didn't think it was serious. I didn't think it could get me fired. But there's some obscure rule about dating a partner that could have gotten both of us fired. I didn't even know it existed, until Elliot decided to point it out to me.

We kind of suspected Cragen was on to us, so we decided to tell him. It was only the most nerve-wracking ten minutes of my life, but we told him. I think we finally shocked him, that day.

He wasn't pissed. I expected him to be pissed off at us, for putting our jobs on the line. He just told us to keep it off the job and told us he'd take care of things. He's letting us work cases together. We got a better reaction from him than I expected.

I have to get out of here. I put my pen down and shove back my chair. I'm going to go home and hang out with him and the kids. They'll be disappointed if I stay late to work

Everybody's settled on the couch, in front of a DVD, when I step into the apartment. I see Elliot watching me. I promised him I'd be home before he got here with the kids. "Sorry," I apologize, quietly, kissing him on the cheek. "Traffic was a nightmare. I didn't think it was gonna be that bad. I thought I might have missed rush hour."

He shakes his head and I take the empty space between the two kids.

"You two not talking to each other?" I ask, leaning back against the couch. Twin pairs of blue eyes that look uncannily like their father's glance at me. Two heads - one blonde, with a ponytail, the other light brown, with a short haircut - shake.

They're twins, but they can fight. And it takes a while to break them up, when they do fight. "Aww, c'mon," I tease, lightly. "You guys can't go long without talking to each other, huh?"

"Liv, the last time they fought, they didn't say a word to each other for two days," Elliot puts in.

"It wasn't as bad as you and Mom," Lizzie jumps in, nearly cutting off her father.

Poor kids. They know what's going on, to a point, but it's still gotta be scary to have your family spilt up. But they seem to be okay. Elliot told me he and Kathy sat down and talked to them.

"Yeah, I know." Elliot gently pulls on his daughter's short ponytail.

"Still not talking?" I glance in Dickie's direction. "You guys couldn't have had that bad of a fight. Because you're still sitting in the same room."

By the end of the second movie, they're talking to each other, again. It took me a while, but I got them talking to each other. They're bickering and teasing each other, like usual, when Kathy comes by to pick them up.

The first time she came here, I'll admit, I was nervous. I didn't know how she'd respond to me. I've seen divorced couples that are forced to interact because of the kids and, sometimes, it can get nasty. Especially if there's someone new.

But she and Elliot aren't hostile. They're not angry at each other. I think they ended it on good terms. She's even friendly with me. It kind of surprised me, when she asked me how I was doing, when she came by to pick up Kathleen, one day. If I was in her shoes, seeing the man I'd been married to for twenty years with a new girlfriend, _I'd _be mad.

I don't understand what's going on between the two of them, but I think that they just want to see each other happy. And it's none of my business, anyway. If he wants to be friends with his ex-wife, why the hell should I worry about it? Not all divorced couples are at each other's throats.

"C'mere, Liv," Elliot murmurs, reaching out a hand to me. He's sitting on the couch. I walk across the living room and sit next to him. He kisses the top of my head, making me move until I'm stretched out on the couch, my head in his lap.

He likes to sit like this. In the middle of a case, we've come home and had brainstorming sessions, like this. He managed to knock me out for a good two hours once, by running his fingers through my hair, over and over.

I think he likes me with long hair, because he won't let me cut my hair. It needs to be cut so badly, but he won't let me do it.

"Liv?"

"Mm?" I shift, slightly, to make this a little easier on my neck. "What?"

He runs his hand through my hair, lightly. "You ever think about having kids? How many you might want?"

I blink. Where's this coming from? "I don't know. Why?"

"You've never thought about it?"

"I have. When my friends were having their kids, I thought about it. But there was no guy in my life that I'd want to be a father to my kids, then," I murmur, glancing up at him, confused. I really don't understand where this is coming from.

"What about now?"

He's talking about us bringing a kid into this world. I really need to wake up. "I don't know, El. You've already got four of 'em and two of 'em are almost grown - do you really want more?"

"I'd be open to it," he replies, quietly.

"And give your poor brothers and sisters another niece or nephew to try and remember? How many kids do you guys have, all together?"

"Between all six of us? Nineteen," he replies, amused.

"God," I shake my head. "But I really don't know. How the hell could we be parents, with these hours? No babysitter's gonna get out of bed at two in the morning."

"We'd find a way, Liv. You have friends who are parents, don't you? Friends that are stay-at-home moms?"

"Un-hm," I reply, nodding. Most of my friends are parents. The odd few have given up their careers to be mothers.

"They'd probably be more than happy to babysit," he replies.

"But would we be able to be parents to a kid? Or would we just be handing them off to a babysitter at every turn?" That's always been a worry. That if I had a child, he or she would be raised by a babysitter. I'd still be Mom, but they'd be closer to their babysitter.

"We'd be able to be parents to them, Liv. You know that. You're great with kids that aren't even yours," he replies. "I've seen you. Why do you think you usually get sent in to talk to the kids?"

"Because you scare people?" I suggest, jokingly.

He sighs. "Olivia, I'm serious."

"I know," I tell him, looking up at him to let him know that I'm taking this as seriously as he is. "I never had a childhood, remember? How can I give a kid what I never had? No kid should have to grow up as fast as I did."

"So you don't let them. It's simple, Liv. You let them be kids. You'd make a good mother. I know you would," he murmurs, his fingers lightly brushing my scalp.

"You think so?" He's usually hard on parents. For him to think that I'd make a good mother, he must see something.

"I know. You've got the twins wrapped around your little finger. They adore you," he replies.

"But they're not my kids. I don't know what I'd do if I had to be the parent. You know, you hear stories of the kids of rich people, being raised by their nannies. Their babysitters are more like their parents. I don't want that. I want to a mother, but with these hours, I don't think I could pull it off," I sigh.

"That's because their 'parents' are too busy with their money to give a damn about their kids. They can just hire someone and do whatever they want. You'd care enough to make sure you were a parent. I know you," he murmurs, reaching for my hand.

"I don't know, El. I wanted to be a mother when my friends were pregnant and having babies, but I don't know. I don't know if I could be a parent, with this job and _not _turn out to be paranoid. Convinced that if I let 'em go on their own that they'd get hurt."

"You'd learn to let 'em go. You can protect 'em, Liv, but you can't shelter them forever. They gotta learn some things away from Mom and Dad."

"I _know _that," I protest. "But knowing that and being able to _do _that are two different things. How many times have we seen a mother look away for two seconds and her kid's gone?"

"Think about it," he says, leaning down to kiss me on the forehead. "There's no rush. I just thought"-

"I don't know. I always dreamed of getting married and then having kids. Bringing them into something stable. A situation where they knew what they were gonna come home to, when they walked in the door. You have no idea what that feels like - coming home, never knowing what you're gonna walk into, when you open that door. Especially as a kid. I wanted something solid, before I thought about having kids."

"What about us? Huh? It's been a year."

I sigh. "I really don't know if I can be the kind of mother I want to be and still do the job." Damn. He just gave me a hell of a lot more to think about! I look up at him. "Maybe. I need to think about it."

He nods. "I know it'd be a big decision for you. Sleep on it. Think about it. I know I just gave you a lot to think about."

"Yeah. You've got that right."


	4. Chapter 4

He's still got me thinking, this morning. Could I be a mother? Do I really want to be? Or was the longing I felt, seeing my friends with their babies just envy? Envy because they had the unconditional love of an innocent child. Someone who'd love them, no matter what.

Becoming a mother would change my career in a lot of ways. If I got pregnant and I started to show, Cragen would have me riding a desk, instantly. I've seen women on the force have kids and get so wrapped up in things that they quit. They don't think that they can manage kids and a job.

I don't even know if I'd be capable of being a mother. I didn't have a normal childhood. I can't think back on things my mother did, when it comes to parenting, because she usually wasn't there. Or when she was there, the things she did aren't things I want to think about. Never mind do to another child.

I had one pregnancy scare, in college. I spent the longest two minutes of my life locked in the bathroom, _praying _that the test I'd brought at the corner drugstore wasn't positive. I didn't _want _to be a mother at eighteen or nineteen.

Now. I'm thinking about becoming a mother. What kind of changes it would make. Could I bring up a normal, healthy child, with my history and my job?

I don't think the job would be the problem. Elliot's raised four great kids, while working in the squad. But he doesn't have the history that I do. I'm not so worried about the genes anymore. People - shrinks, friends, bosses and partners - have been insisting for years that if genes had anything to do with how a person behaved, I wouldn't be who I am. And I think they've convinced me.

But there's always another worry. The medical history. I have no idea what I'm passing on by the way of diseases. And I don't want to be responsible for hurting my own child. If I got pregnant, without knowing half of my medical history, some people would accuse me of putting a child at risk.

I'm not exactly young, either. I'm not gonna lie to myself. The older a woman is when she gets pregnant, the more risks there are to the baby.

I really don't know what I want to do. I've thought about having kids - what woman hasn't? - but when I was thinking about becoming a mother, I was usually single or in a relationship that was going nowhere. I wanted stability for my kids, if I ever had any.

Now I'm with a guy who's already a father and obviously knows what he's doing. The kind of man that I would have liked to father my kids, a few years ago. And I can't make up my mind. Do I want to take the risk?

I have a goddaughter, though. A beautiful, intelligent girl, who's the daughter of my best friends. I've become her second mother, over the years. Her mother is as close to a sister as I'll ever get. We fight like sisters, occasionally, and sometimes, I think her family forgets that I'm _not _related to them.

I know I'd be scared to death. I've seen too many things. There are too many threats to a child. Especially in this cesspool of a city.

If I do decide to have a kid, I know the first instinct I'll have is to move. Pack up and move out of the city. Somewhere safe. Like some little town upstate, where the crime rate is basically nothing.

I was born here. I walked a beat for years. I know what happens here. And why the hell would I ever want to expose another kid to it? Kids are observant as hell. They notice things that their parents don't even think they notice. And no matter how much you try to hide from them, they'll eventually pick it up.

I don't want to be an overprotective mother, who doesn't let her kids do anything. I don't think it works.

I didn't meet my grandparents until I was a teenager, because my mother wasn't on great terms with them. But when I finally met them, my grandmother tried to protect me. Hover over me and shelter me.

I wasn't used to that and it made me angry. I was used to being able to do whatever I wanted, with no one worrying. I wasn't used to being hovered over. I know I don't want to be the hovering mother hen, who tries to shelter her kids, because that doesn't seem to work. But what else could I be?

I don't know what else I could do, with what I see. I'd feel like I had to protect my kid. With the kinds of things I've seen over the years, I'd be scared to leave a child alone with someone else. I know I'd be the paranoid mother.

I have a goddaughter. I was in the waiting room, as the doctors delivered her by a C-section. I peeked in, when they put her in the nursery. I was there for her birthday parties, as a child.

Now, she's a teenager. She's thinking about college. Her future. She calls me now and then, to talk about things. I took her to her first concert, a couple of years ago, for her birthday. I've watched her grow up. It's good enough for me, that her parents allowed me into her life. I'm happy with that.

Something hits the back of my hand, jarring me out of my thoughts. I look down, seeing the pen there. I look up at Elliot. "What?"

"Something interesting on the wall?" He questions, amused.

"I was thinking," I snap back, annoyed.

"You can think later. I've only been trying to talk to you for the last five minutes," he replies.

"What?" I push my hair back off my forehead.

"You remember Andrews?"

"Yeah," I nod, thinking about the perp he mentioned. Thomas Andrews. Son of a bitch raped three women, down on the Lower East Side, all living within three blocks of each other. The judge released him on bail, and he jumped it. He didn't show up for the first day of his trial and the judge issued a bench warrant. That was a month ago. "They found him?"

"Yeah. A couple of uniforms pulled him over on a busted taillight - they ran his license, but they didn't hear about the warrant until after he was gone."

I roll my eyes. Uniforms can pull off some stupid things sometimes. "How'd they find him?"

"Address on the license. They're sitting on the apartment, waiting for us."

."Liv?" Elliot glances at me, as we head out to the car, to go catch this son of a bitch.

"Hm?" I push my hair out of my face and adjust my scarf. "What?"

"Did you think about what we talked about last night?" He questions.

"Yeah. I did," I reply. "Been thinking about it all morning. But the thing is, El - I'm not young anymore. No sense in lying to myself. I don't know if I'd have the energy to run around after a kid all day. And there'd be more risk in me getting pregnant now." I sigh. I knew he was going to bring this up, but I still didn't like having to tell him.

"You wouldn't be alone," he murmurs, gently rubbing a hand along my back. It's a small gesture, but it's discreet. I still like things that way.

"Yeah, I know. But I don't know if I could be the kind of mother that I'd want to be. I don't know if I'd be able to let them go and grow up, with the kind of crap that we see. And I have a goddaughter," I tell him, huddled deep inside my jacket.

"You mean Amy? Dana and Chris's kid?" He questions, bringing up my best friend from childhood, Dana Libretti and her husband, Chris. He's met them. We've had dinner with them a few times, as a couple.

"Yeah. She's a great kid. When my friends were having their kids, I wanted to be a mother, myself. I think about now and it was probably just envy. They had someone who'd love them, no matter what, and I was alone," I reply.

I sigh, rubbing my eyes, seeing the look on his face, after I finish that sentence. "El, I"- I don't want to disappoint him. Maybe he really wanted to be a father to my child.

"Hey. Like you said - I've got four of 'em. I was just telling you that if you wanted to have kids, I'd be open to it," he leans in and kisses the top of my head, lightly, reaching around me to open the car door for me.

I slide into the passenger seat, sighing. I never thought about having this discussion with a man. I never thought I'd have to. I didn't think things would get this serious.

It doesn't take us long to arrive outside the guy's apartment. The guys who pulled him over on a traffic stop have already called for backup. There are a few squad cars parked nearby, but far enough away so they won't make anyone suspicious.

There's a group of uniforms waiting for us, along with ESU, in the alley next to the building.

"We good to go?" Elliot questions, of one the ESU guys.

"Yeah. Say when," The man replies, nodding.

"Okay. Let's go and be quiet. This guy's a runner. We don't wanna tip him off," my partner warns. He's senior. I let him call the shots.

I remember when we arrested him the first time. He ran on us. Made us chase him across the roofs, until we cornered him.

The building is a hellhole. The paint's peeling off the walls and the stairs don't even look safe.

We approach the guy's door. It looks weak. It would only take a kick to bring it down. It's painted green, but the paint is peeling off rapidly. There's a couple of stickers on it that read _2A._

Instead of knocking, like we normally would, we just move to the side and let the guy with the battering ram do the work. The door falls and we move in, quickly.

Shouts of 'clear!' echo around the dirty, dingy, cheap apartment. Why do they always seem to live in dumps like this?

I feel a cold blast of air against my right side. I turn my head, seeing the open window. I catch Elliot's sleeve in my fingers, to get his attention. Who in their right mind would go out and leave a window wide open, in this city?

I lean out, seeing that the window leads to the fire escape. Son of a bitch! I crawl out the small window, onto the metal landing in front of it. Something catches my eye.

He's a few feet below the window. I know it's him. The cheap winter coat, the pale face with the dark eyes of a criminal - he's got a long rap sheet. He thought he could hide down there, until we gave up looking. When he sees me, he takes off running down the metal steps. I hate it when they run. Don't they know that we're eventually gonna get them, anyway?

He didn't get that much of a head start. I've been chasing people down fire escapes for years. My feet strike the metal, hard, and the air I'm sucking into my lungs is icy cold. I can hear Elliot behind me, making his way down.

The sick, sadistic son of a bitch jumps the last few feet to the ground and I do the same. He's gone, by the time I hit the pavement. Where the hell did he go? I keep my gun at my side, warily, looking around the narrow alley. He couldn't have gotten far.

I hear a shot, suddenly, coming from my right. I dive down, but too late. I can already feel the pain ripping through my body from a point on my right side.

"Liv!" Elliot's voice echoes off the brick walls, as he runs toward me. The pain's too much. I can't even breathe.

I hear him kneel beside me. I feel him gently shift me from my stomach, onto my back. "Jesus, " he whispers, his hands finding that spot on my side. He presses on it, with a hand and I try to get a breath.

He's saying something that I can't make out. He's not talking to me.

"Liv," he leans down to speak into my ear, quietly. "Help's on the way."

I nod. I'd talk, but I can't get the sound out. My vision blurs and fades into grey. I blink, and his face comes into focus again. "You gotta stay with me," he murmurs, pressing on the gaping bullet hole in my side. I can see it there. The blood trail on the pavement.

He takes my hand in his, his big hand easily covering mine. "You're gonna be fine," he reassures. "You gotta stay with me, Liv. Stay with me."

I can hear sirens, in the distance. It's an ambulance. Not a police siren. I know the difference. My vision fades again, this time, into black.


	5. Chapter 5

I hate hospitals. Can't stand them. How the hell did I get here? I was _supposed _to watch her back. And I let this happen.

She was trying to be strong. I could see it in her face. She wasn't going to let me see just how much pain she was in. But her white-knuckle grip on my hand kind of gave it away.

She went limp on me, just before the paramedics got to us. Closed her eyes and gave in. She had me panicking, until I saw she was still breathing. The medics rushed in and took over, placing an oxygen mask on her and starting IVs, talking to each other so fast that I couldn't even understand what they were saying.

They let me ride with her. And then, I found myself, here, in the hall. Waiting. It can't be that bad. It can't be. She's a fighter. I know she is. I'm not gonna lose her.

Munch and Fin got here first, and Cragen showed up about two minutes after, coming out of some meeting downtown.

The boss steps over and I look up. "What?"

"Go get cleaned up," Cragen tells me. I glance at my hands. One's clean. Completely untouched. But the palm and fingers of the other are covered in her blood.

She should've been wearing a vest. But we didn't think he'd have a gun. Here was a guy who'd never committed a violent crime in his life. A few burglaries, a couple of convictions for car theft and fraud, and a couple of DUIs. He had a sheet as long as my arm, but he'd never been violent, until he started to rape. But, even then, he didn't carry a weapon.

One of the nurses shows me where I can clean up. She tried to tell me something. I saw her lips move, but she couldn't get the sound out. If I lose her, that bastard's gonna regret the day he was born.

I watch, as the combination of soap suds and blood swirls around the white basin of the sink and goes down the drain. She won't like that. Doing something out of revenge. If some son of a bitch who couldn't stand up and take the consequences for what he'd done takes her from me, he's gonna pay, one way or the other.

"Uniforms found Andrews, on the next block. Still had the gun on him," Don informs me, when I resume my seat in the hall. "John and Fin went for a cup of coffee - you want anything?"

I shake my head. "Little bastard should rot somewhere," I growl, staring at the tile in front of me. She told me once that she doesn't have much luck, when it comes to being happy. In some twisted way, you could call this proof. We're happy, together, and this happens.

"She's a fighter," Cragen comments, quietly. "She'll pull through. You know she is. She wouldn't have made it this far, if she wasn't."

He's right. She likes life too much just to give up and die. She'll put up a fight. That's how she does things. If she wasn't a fighter, she would have given up long before this, with the kind of crap she's lived through.

A white-coated doctor comes into the hall, pulling a mask down from his face. I get up, hoping he's bringing good news. His face is pretty much expressionless, but that's a regular thing for doctors.

I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to keep some kind of control. I can't talk. I won't be able to get a word out.

Don moves from where he's leaning against the wall and joins me. "Doc, is she okay?"

"Yes. She's lucky," The middle-aged doctor sighs. "The bullet entered and bounced off a rib - it exited out her back. She's got a broken rib or two, but she's fine. If it had lodged somewhere inside, we'd have a problem. She's a lucky woman."

"Can I see her?" I have to see her. Touch her. See her breathing. See that she's okay, for myself.

The man rubs his face, tiredly. "Detective, we normally limit it to family. Next of kin."

"There is no next of kin," I sigh. "She's my girlfriend." I feel awkward, saying that in front of the boss, because we kept it a secret for so long.

He nods, understanding. "She's groggy, but you can see her. Just try to keep her calm, if you can. Second room on your left. One person at a time would probably be better."

"Thanks," I reply, reaching for a handshake. The doctor gives me a firm one, and walks off.

"You go first." Don nods, as I sigh in relief. She's okay.

I step into the room, shutting the door behind me, as quietly as I can. I see her, lying on the bed, a clean white sheet and a blanket tucked under her arms.

Her head's lying limply against the pillow. Her beautiful dark hair is spread out around her face. She looks so pale, so fragile. I've never seen her like this. When she walks into a room, she gives off this impression of strength. She looks so weak, now, it's a little scary.

A thin, dark wire snakes under the material of the hospital gown that covers her chest. Heart monitor, I realize, noticing the machine that's beside her bed, beeping continuously. There's an IV running into her left arm, but that's it. She's not as bad as I thought she might be.

I find a chair in the room and pull it over, to sit beside her. "Hi, sweetheart." I feel compelled to talk to her. Even though she looks like she's still asleep.

Her eyes flicker, when I speak. She opens them, fully, and looks at me, groggily. "El?" Her voice is a thin whisper.

"Yeah. I'm here, sunshine." I reach up and gently stroke her hair, brushing it out of her face. She hates that name. Or she pretends to. I never know, with her.

"Mmph," she makes the sound, closing her eyes.

"What? Is there something wrong? Want me to get the doctor?"

She reaches with her right hand and grabs mine, with surprising strength. I didn't think she'd have that much left. "No. Just - I feel like I've been stepped on."

I rub my fingers over the back of her hand. She's alive. Breathing and talking and _alive_. When she faded into unconsciousness in that alley, she had me terrified. Who knew what kind of damage that bullet could have caused?

"Yeah. You should feel like that. You remember what happened?"

She nods, weakly. "Son of a bitch shot me."

She remembers it. She knows what happened. But there's still a haze in those beautiful, intelligent eyes. It's probably the painkillers and God-knows-what else they've got her doped up on.

"You're probably tired. I should let you get some rest," I tell her. She does look exhausted. I don't want to keep her talking very long. The doctor said to keep her calm.

"Mm-hm. Stay," she murmurs, drowsily, reaching for my hand, again.

"Liv, the boss and the guys are out there. They wanna see you," I protest, quietly.

"Don't care," she replies.

She's out of it. But she wants me here. "Okay. I'll be right back - I just gotta go talk to Don for a second, huh? Let him know you're okay."

She nods, slowly. She's with it enough to understand me, at least. I lean down and kiss her on the forehead, heading for the door.

I step out, quietly shutting the door. I feel a pair of sharp eyes on me, as I turn to face Cragen. "How is she?" The boss questions, hands shoved in his pockets.

"She looks like hell," I sigh. "But she's okay."

Don walks into the room, to see her and I find myself in the hall, again. But this time, I'm alone.

Around Christmas, we were just talking, and somehow, we started talking about getting married. She laughed and said she wouldn't want to subject me to being married to her. I don't think she realized I was serious. I'd be happy, married to her. Or maybe she _did _know that I was serious about it, but she wasn't ready.

I should have asked her. We went out for dinner, a couple of weeks ago, and even though I hadn't bought her a ring, I was going to ask her. It was a spur of the moment thing. But I couldn't work up the nerve to.

I kicked myself for a whole week, after that. I should have asked her. I'm not the type to get nervous, but just the idea of asking her to make a decision like that was enough to make me sweat. I know it would be a huge decision for her.

I could have lost her, today. Thank God that son of a bitch wasn't a better shot. But I don't want to take another chance. I'm not going to let her slip away from me.

When we first started this whole thing, about a year ago, she was scared. She was scared that I was going to hurt her, like every other asshole who'd walked through her life and left a scar on her.

I was able to see it, long before she swallowed her pride and admitted it. She'd been hurt. She'd been burned one too many times. I half-expected that kind of fear and the wariness. Every other time she'd fallen for someone, she'd been hurt. She'd been left behind to pick up the pieces.

I think it's time that I show her that I'm serious about this. That I'm not just going to leave her in the dust. I've told her that. But something inside me just wants to make it official. Give her the stability she's been looking for since she was a kid. It's the least I can do for her.

I owe her that much. How many times has she been there? Chased me, revealing that stubborn side that I love, to make me talk to her. She's refused to let me shut her out. I can give her something solid that she can depend on. Something that she knows is going to be there.

So what am I going to do? Pop the question while she's lying in a hospital bed, recovering from being shot? That'll go over really well. If she's even awake enough to know what I'm asking her.

When Cragen emerges from her room, I move away from the wall and head back toward the door. "She asked me to stay," I reply, to the Captain's questioning look, shrugging, "and you know Liv, if she doesn't get what she wants."

He shakes his head, as I step back inside.

She turns her head, slightly, when I walk into the room. "Don't move," I caution, softly. Knowing her, she'll probably be trying to move around before she's ready to.

She rolls her eyes. "So you wanna baby me too?"

Her voice is stronger. She sounds like herself. And the attitude in her words tells me that she's still with me.

"Baby you? Nah. I wouldn't risk pissing you off. I just didn't want you to hurt yourself," I reply. She's sounding more like herself now.

She sighs and shifts herself, on the bed. "I didn't even see him, El. I didn't even"-

"This wasn't your fault," I cut her off, firmly. This huge guilt complex is the only quality she has that annoys me. She seems to find a way to blame herself for everything. "He was being sneaky. Hiding on you. There wasn't much light in that alley, Liv. How could you have seen him?"

She submits to that reasoning, nodding. I look down and see what I've been clutching in my hand, without even noticing. A nurse brought me a plastic bag with her things in it, while we were waiting. Her badge and gun, her keys and wallet, and her jewelry.

Her hand goes to her throat, unconsciously. She's feeling for the simple necklace she always wears. I questioned her about it, once, and she told me it had been a birthday gift from her mother, the year before Serena died.

To a child who'd had a normal relationship with their parent, it wouldn't have been so important. But, from what she's told me, birthday gifts from her mother were pretty rare. So she treasures the simple chain and pendant.

"Where"- she begins, softly, her fingers feeling along her neck for the chain.

I cut her off. "It's right here, sweetheart. I've got it," I reassure, softly, pulling the chain out from the bag and showing it to her.

She manages a smile. "Any hope of me getting out of here sometime in the near future?"

I shake my head. I should have known she'd ask me that. We share a common dislike for hospitals. "I don't know. Maybe I should just leave you here."

_That _earns me another eye-roll. "You do and you see what happens to you, when the boss hears about it."

"That's right. I forgot. You're his favorite," I comment.

She sighs. "You _know _he doesn't play favorites."

"But if he _did_, you'd be it."

Olivia glances at me. "But he was ready to kick me off the squad, at one time," she replies.

I know what she's getting at. Those first few cases - that entire first year, actually, when Cragen worried about her objectivity. Her ability to handle the kinds of cases we see. "That happens with every rookie, Liv. Everyone's on thin ice, till they learn to handle it. You know, like the rookie beat cop who loses his lunch the first time he sees a dead body? The guys think he's pathetic, then. But, eventually, he gets a grip on things."

She nods, agreeing with that reasoning.

I look down, seeing what else is in the bag I've been carrying around. Her watch and the simple silver rings she wears on her right hand, every day. She seems to be lucid. She's talking to me. Understands what I'm saying.

I pull one of the rings from the bag and get up. She looks at me, confused. "Where are you going?" She questions, as I move around her bed, to her left side.

I kneel beside the bed, the plain silver band clutched in my palm. She glances at me, confusion in her eyes. But, otherwise, they're clear. She's fully awake

I kiss her cheek and reach for her left hand. She blinks, curiously. It's the detective in her. She wants to know what the hell I'm doing and why.

"Liv?"

"Hm?"

"I love you, sweetheart. Will you marry me?"

Her eyes fill with tears and she nods, quivering. So much for keeping her calm. Her hand's shaking, nearly as much as mine is, as I slide the band over the ring finger of her hand.

She smiles at me. I lean down and kiss her on the forehead, brushing away the tears.

"Did you ask Dad's permission first?" She questions, grinning.


	6. Chapter 6

I hope to hell she's not serious. She wants me to go ask Cragen for his permission? Or is she just trying to torture me?

"You want me to go take him to dinner and ask him for your hand in marriage? Do things right?"

She shakes her head and wipes her eyes. She's still crying. I'm hoping that's a good thing. "Just messing with you," she replies, sniffling.

There's a box of tissues on the table beside her bed. I pull a couple out and hand them to her. She wipes her face, quickly, dabbing at her eyes.

"That's one way to do it, Liv," I murmur, when she's done.

"You gotta go tell him, though," she replies. "I'd do it, but I kinda can't." She finally lets go of my hand - she's had a grip on it for the last five minutes - and nods to the door.

I step out into the hall. Now I think I understand how my daughters' dates feel. Why they always look so nervous, when they walk in the door. Why the girls don't _want _to bring a guy home to meet me.

I know Olivia would never admit to seeing Cragen as a father figure, no more than he'd admit to seeing her as a daughter. The child he'd never had. But from watching them interact, I know I'm about to tell the closest thing Olivia's ever had to a father that she's engaged to me. And I really don't know how it's going to go over.

"Cap?" I question, thumbs hooked in my belt.

Don runs a hand over his bald head. "What's up?"

"I, uh . . . " Why do I need to bother fumbling through a speech? It'll be better if I just tell him outright. "Olivia and I getting married."

He gives me a sharp look. "When did this happen?"

I shake my head. "About ten minutes ago. It wasn't a spur of the moment thing - I've been thinking about asking her for weeks." I knew he'd be worried about that. Afraid that we were going to rush into something. And he does want to protect her, like any father.

"You've got a strange sense of timing, Elliot," the boss comments, arms crossed over his chest. "But she's happy with you."

I think that's his way of giving his blessing. I hope so.

"Getting married again so soon?" Munch calls.

He and Fin were sitting a couple of feet away. They overheard the whole thing. I shake my head, and they get up, to congratulate me. And, then, we all head in. They want to congratulate Liv.

She looks up, when the four of us come into the room. "Okay? What's going on?"

"Didn't you think we'd want to congratulate you?" Munch questions, as Don leans in to hug her. "Not that I think that's it's anything worth celebrating, but"-

That earns him an eye-roll from Olivia. _Finally_, someone else is on the receiving end of that.

"Listen, man," Fin cuts in. "No one _cares _about what you think. And why do you wanna ruin it for them, anyway?"

"I'm not _trying _to ruin it for them"- John begins, annoyed.

Olivia sighs. "Hey, guys - you think you can save the argument for out in the hall? My head's killing me."

The beginning of what could have been one long Munch and Fin argument ends there, when she cuts in. That's the first time I've ever heard them stop, for _anyone_.

After a few well-meaning threats about what will happen to me if I should ever hurt her, I'm left alone in the room with her again.

"You okay?" I pull up my chair beside her bed, again, and lightly stroke her hair. "You want me to see if they can give you anything?"

She shakes her head, slightly. "No. Painkillers'll only knock me out again." She groans, quietly. Her face turns white and she makes a strangled choking sound. "Gonna be sick," she groans, trying to push herself up.

I look around, seeing the blue plastic basin sitting on the table beside her bed. I grab it and help her into a sitting position. I don't know how strong she is. If she's able to support herself.

She drops her head, leaning forward a little more. I use one hand to hold the basin for her and let the other arm slip around her chest, to support her. "It's okay, honey," I soothe, quietly.

I know what she's feeling. The urge to vomit and get the offending something out of her system. With four kids bringing every germ on the planet home from school, I've been sick enough times to know. But she can't do it. She draws a ragged breath and coughs. I feel her stomach heave and she gasps, as her insides expel what looks like a couple of days' worth of meals.

She gags and heaves, a few times, trembling from head to toe. Her stomach heaves, one last time, and she coughs, as the last of it comes up. I move the basin out of the way and gently rub her back, still supporting her weight. Her face is bright red, her eyes bloodshot and filled with tears.

She coughs, harshly. "El?" Her voice is rough. Her throat's raw, scorched by the stomach acid as it came up.

"Yeah? You all right?" She seems to be okay. Just a little weak. But what's worrying me is what's making her sick. What the hell would make her throw up everything in her stomach like she just did? Then I remember. They probably had to knock her out, to work on her.

Anesthetics can make people sick. When they had to remove Dickie's appendix, last year, he was sick that whole first night.

She slumps back against the pillows, weakly, as I head into the room's small bathroom, to flush the contents of the basin down the toilet. Then, I call a nurse and explain.

The woman in pale scrubs confirms my suspicion. It was probably just the anesthetic making her sick. She brings a cup of water into the room, so Olivia can soothe her raw throat and clean out her mouth.

I offer the cup to her and she takes it, sucking a mouthful of fluid through the straw. She swirls it around in her mouth, to clean her mouth out and looks for a place to spit. I hold up the room's small trash can, that doesn't have a thing in it, and she spits the mouthful of water out.

Olivia settles back and sighs, quietly. She lifts up her left hand and regards the silver band on her ring fingers for a minute. "So you couldn't be bothered to go buy me a ring, huh?" I see the amusement in her eyes. She's joking.

"You'll have to take that up with Maureen," I inform her. "It's her fault I'm always broke."

"Sure. Blame it on your kid," she retorts, reaching for the cup again. "You've told me only a thousand times how much you hate shopping."

"Hey. Even with her paying half of her own tuition, I'm still broke," I reply. "But I'll get you a ring."

"I've got one," she answers.

"What?" I blink. She can't possibly want to wear that band as her engagement ring. It doesn't make sense. "Liv, I'll get you a real ring."

"No. I have one. Gold and diamond - the works."

"It isn't a trophy from some ex-fiance, is it?" I question. If she thinks I'm going to let her spend the rest of her life married to me, while wearing an engagement ring from another man, she's crazy.

"No," she shakes her head, disgusted and impatient. "It's my grandmother's."

That's the first time I've heard her mention her grandmother. I knew she had to have grandparents, like anyone else, but I don't think she's even mentioned them. "Your grandmother's?"

"Are you a parrot now?" She demands, annoyed. "Yes. It's my grandmother's engagement ring. She left it to Mom, when she died, with her pearls. I found all of it, when Mom died and I cleaned out her apartment. When I get out of here, I'll show it to you."

"You're not gonna be in here forever, Liv," I murmur, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Trust me. We'll get you home."

"Yeah, but I can forget about going back to work for the next month or so," she replies, miserably. She's thinking about spending days at home, doing nothing. She hates being idle. She has to do _something_.

"You _could _go back and do my paperwork for me," I suggest, earning myself a glare.

"No." Olivia shoots me a look of mock-disgust. "First it was your shopping, now your paperwork? I feel used."

"I was just trying to find you something to do," I kid, lightly.

She sighs and regards her left hand again. "You know, now that we got that ring stuck on there, I don't think it's coming off."

"Huh?"

"It was sized for the middle finger of my right hand. It's on the ring finger of my left. I think it's stuck there."

I shake my head. "Is it too tight?" I don't want to make her any more uncomfortable than she already has to be.

"It's fine. I just don't think we're going to be able to get it off," she replies, quietly. "You know, I didn't think you'd be all too interested in getting married again."

"Who wouldn't be interested in marrying you?" I raise an eyebrow and she pretends to look unamused. But there's a soft look in her eyes. The look I've come to recognize as affection. "I'd been thinking about it for a while. You remember when we went out a couple of weekends ago?"

"Morelli's?" She questions.

"Yeah. I was thinking about asking you there. But it just didn't feel right."

"Oh, and the middle of a damned hospital did?" She fixes me with both eyes. "You mean you just couldn't work up the nerve."

"Yeah. Fine. That too," I admit. She knows when I try to lie to her. Not that I'd ever want to.

"So what made you decide to do it?"

"I could've lost you. That was what," I reply, touching her face, lightly. "If he'd been a better shot . . . "

"Don't think about that," Olivia takes my hand in hers. "Don't. I'm fine. You know, you have one hell of a strange sense of timing."

I shake my head. "I wasn't waiting."

She shrugs. "So there goes my dream of a nice, romantic proposal, huh?"

"We've still got the wedding," I point out.

"Can we afford one?" She questions, giving me a poke. "With you crying broke and all?"

I laugh. She's fine. Normal. She'll heal. "You're fine, all right," I tell her, kissing her cheek.

She glances up at me, with those big eyes of hers. "You know I'm gonna have scars when the stitches come out. A couple of nasty ones."

"So?" Does she really think I care about something that superficial? "Battle scars. You should be proud of 'em."

She rolls her eyes. "What is it with guys and being proud of having scars? I don't get it."

"Like I said. Battle scars. You survived. Be proud of 'em," I tell her. I really don't care how scarred she is. I love her, for her. She'd be beautiful, even if she didn't look like the rest of the world's definition of 'pretty'. It was what she had on the inside that caught my attention, first.

"You know," Olivia sighs, quietly, trying to adjust the pillow behind her. She winces, in pain, and I quickly move to help her. I don't want to do everything for her and make her dependent - she'll slowly start to hate me, if I do. But I don't want to see her in pain. I don't want to see her hurt herself.

She settles back, a little more comfortable. "You know, when I was younger, I thought I'd get married. You know, settle down, raise a couple of kids. Have something to come home to. When I thought about it, I thought about the wedding day. For the longest time, I didn't even think I'd want my mother there. We really didn't get along, when I was younger."

I nod. She's told me that she regretted being so hostile toward her mother. They'd only just started to get along and get to know each other, when her mother died.

"Then, I thought about it, you know. She was my mother. What the hell was wrong with me? Thinking that I didn't want my own mother at my wedding?"

"Liv . . . " There's nothing I can say to that. We grew up in completely different worlds. I can't possibly tell her I understand what she went through, because it wouldn't be right. Because I don't.

To the average outsider, who looked at the backgrounds we came from, they'd say she was better off. An only child, raised by a single mother with a solid career, who could more than adequately provide for her. Compared to me - one of six kids, raised by a beat cop from Queens and his wife. My parents didn't have much money to go around.

A college education was a sure thing for her. She could definitely go. I had to go into the military to go to college.

She could have had anything she wanted, as a child. She didn't go through times when the electricity was cut off, because my father had a choice to make - pay the bill or buy groceries to feed us.

So, to someone who looked at our backgrounds, her childhood would seem better. But my parents were able to give us all one thing that she never had. Attention. Some kind of affection. I looked forward to going home, as a kid. I know she hated it.

I knew what I was going to walk into, when I came home. My father at work and my mother in the kitchen or scrubbing the floor, trying to settle the never-ending arguments between my sisters and my brothers. I know it was different for her. She never knew what she was going to walk in on, when she opened the door.

So, in a way, I know I was better off than Olivia, as a child. There wasn't much to go around, but my parents were trying. They cared. Paid attention to all of us. So I don't know what she went through. I can't tell her I understand, because I don't.

Olivia offers me a sad look. "I'm going to get married and she's not here. I"-

I think back, remembering my own wedding, the first time around. My to-be mother-in-law threw herself into everything, being the mother of the bride. I know it would be a big deal for a mother, to see her little girl moving on. Building a new life for herself. So it hurts her, to know that her mother's not here for this. To see her happy.

"I know," I reach for her hand. "But she's probably happy for you."

"Yeah," she agrees, shrugging. "Who's gonna walk me down the aisle? I don't have a living relative."

"Hey - you nearly sent me out there to ask for Cragen's permission to marry you. Ask him. He loves you like a daughter, Liv. I should know that kind of thing when I see it."

She nods, again and pushes her hair out of her face.

I tuck back a few pieces of hair that she missed. "And you know Sarah and Emily are gonna want in on this." I shake my head, thinking of the nightmare I just created. Wedding showers and dresses and flowers . . . God. I don't even think I'll be able to set foot in that apartment for the next year or so. Between her, my sisters and her small group of close friends . . . "Now I don't think this was a good idea."

She laughs, quietly. "Promise we won't start talking about flowers in front of you. I didn't think you paid attention to girl stuff anymore."

"It's kind of hard not to," I comment, dryly, "when it's put right in your face, every single day, for years."

"And it's your own fault," she replies, her face completely deadpan. "If you'd stopped gambling with the birth control, you wouldn't be surrounded by women."

I shake my head, slightly. Until you really get to know her, she gives off this impression of being dark. Unhappy. No one ever thinks that she has a sense of humor. She does. She's a complex human being, but I don't mind that.

I just wish I saw more of her sense of humor. The side of her that isn't so dark. She's beautiful, when she's happy. When she smiles. I love that smile. Even when she's half-asleep or simply exhausted and so sick of being with me that she could never see me again and be happy, it always reaches her eyes. Makes them glow, just a little.

"You know, maybe I should let you get some rest," I suggest, quietly. She's still a little pale. Even for her light skin. Dark bags are forming under her eyes.

Olivia nods and shifts herself, slightly. Her face tightens, for a second, and then, she seems to relax. Moving seems to be tough for her. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I just kinda moved the wrong way," she replies, softly. "Stay with me?"

"Sure. I'm right here," I reply, kissing her smooth cheek.

It doesn't take her long to fall asleep. Knowing her, she was more than likely exhausted, but she wouldn't admit it to me. She's got her stubborn pride. And it takes her a while to swallow it.

She's asleep, lying on her back, her hair a mess on the pillow. She murmurs and turns her head away from me. She's sound asleep now. Olivia mutters again and sighs.

She doesn't talk in her sleep, like my son used to, when he was younger. But she does make noise. Dickie used to have full conversations with people, in his dreams, but she doesn't. It's a quiet mutter or a sigh.

I hope I can give her what she deserves. She's an angel on the ground. A woman like her deserves the kind of devotion and love that my father had for my mother.

When my mother passed away, my father fell apart. He wouldn't have made it without her. He didn't know how to. I think he gave up on living, after Mom died, because I was standing at his grave a year later.

She deserves that. She's always been behind me. Backing me. No matter how evil I might have been to her. I've hurt her. Shut her out. And she stayed there. She didn't quit on me.

She did that for me and I was too blind to notice it. Acknowledge it. I owe her something for that. But I'm not marrying her because I owe her something. I'm marrying her because I love her.


	7. Chapter 7

Somehow, I convince her to stay put. Stay in the hospital until the doctor makes his decision to send her home.

Almost a week goes by before they tell her they're ready to release her. But she's being sent home to rest. Not to work. I'm going to have a fight on my hands, because she'll have a hard time sitting still.

She knows that she won't be allowed to go back into the field until one of the Department doctors clears her. And they can be pretty tough.

Olivia emerges from the room, dressed in clothes that I got for her. I just grabbed whatever I could find, when I stopped by the apartment this morning. And that ended up being a pair of sweats, a sweatshirt and sneakers.

She's got a little more color in her face, now. She looks better than she did. I see she's still carrying her sneakers and socks in her hands and raise an eyebrow.

"Well, I can't exactly bend over, can I?" She questions.

I see her point. Moving the wrong way causes her a hell of a lot of pain. Bending down to put on footwear is probably impossible.

"You can't go out there barefoot," I tell her. I'll have to help her. But I don't want to make her feel helpless. Weak. Like she's dependent on me. She won't want to freeze, though.

She slowly eases herself down into one of the chairs in the hallway, handing socks and shoes to me. Kneeling, I pull the simple white socks onto her feet and slide the running shoes on over them. I prop both of her feet on my knees and tie the sneakers for her, the same way I did when my kids were small.

Olivia sighs, softly. She's embarrassed that I had to do something that small for her. That something so simple and everyday as tying her shoes is beyond her.

I watch, as she slowly levers herself up from the chair. Helping her up and down is something that will humiliate her even more.

"You're gonna be back on your feet in no time," I reassure her, softly. "Trust me."

She reaches for my hand, as we make our way down the hall. When we get out to the car, I open the door for her and watch as she eases down into the passenger seat.

When we get inside the apartment, I settle her on the couch, making sure she's comfortable. I head into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. "Liv, you want anything?" I call. But she doesn't answer me. I look out and see that she's abandoned the couch.

I step down the hall. The bathroom door's wide open, so I know she's not there. But I can see the light on in our bedroom. I lean in to find her looking in one of the dresser drawers that we designated as hers. "What are you looking for, huh?" I ask, stepping over and kissing the top of her head.

She produces a simple blue box and pushes the drawer closed. She sits at the edge of the bed and beckons me to join her. She opens the box, revealing a simple gold ring, set with a single, plain diamond. She picks it up and shows it to me, letting it rest in her palm.

Not that I know anything about fashion, but the ring seems to be an older style. Something that wouldn't be so common, now. It must be the ring she mentioned.

"Your grandmother's?" I question.

"Yeah," Olivia looks at it. "I didn't meet her and my grandfather until I was fourteen or so. It was a change for me."

I glance at her, confused.

"Here were two adults who wanted to hug me. Talk to me. Take me places - shopping, baseball games, the museums. They were interested in me. I didn't understand it. Why were they doing this? No one else had."

I see where's she going. Her mother left her with scars that run deep. Not physical, but emotional. She'd grown up, being resented, ignored, and even hated, at times. It was all she knew. There was no other adult in her life to show her something different. To show her that not all adults treated a child that way.

I've always gotten the impression that her mother's abuse was mostly verbal. Emotional. Words can do as much damage to a child as a blow. Being ignored and denied any kind of attention hurts just as much as a slap across the face. I've seen it before.

To have an adult take an interest in her must have been a shock. To have someone pay attention to her. Offer her something as simple as a hug. The way her grandparents treated her was completely opposite from how she'd been treated for the first fourteen years of her life.

Olivia sighs, softly. "They took me out for dinner and threw me a party for my fifteenth birthday. You know, I'd never had a birthday party until that year?"

I blink. I know her childhood was painful, but to have never celebrated her birthday until she was a teenager? When someone else stepped into her life. It surprises me that her mother's parents hadn't stepped in, earlier. I wonder why they didn't. If she didn't meet them until she was a teenager, there had to be some kind of problem.

"Liv?"

"Hm?" She leans her head on my shoulder and puts the ring back in the box. "What?"

"Your mother didn't get along her with her parents?"

"No. I don't really know why, either. They tried to help. They offered to take me and raise me, so she wouldn't have to. They offered to give me a home, because she was just a kid."

"She made her decision, Liv," I answer, softly. Growing up as she did, it doesn't surprise me that she feels like her mother only kept her and took care of her, in a way, out of obligation. Not love.

"I know," Olivia sighs. "I don't know what was between Mom and my grandparents, but I did kind of listen in on a fight, once"-

"Little eavesdropper, weren't you?" I question. I can imagine her spending her time with her ear pressed to a door, listening in on conversations that weren't meant for her ears. It just seems like something she'd do.

She shrugs. "It was the only way I ever heard anything, because no one wanted to tell me. Mom didn't want to look at me, never mind actually _talk _to me, and my grandmother was one of those people who liked to shelter kids. I mean, beyond the point of what a normal parent would do."

She regards her plain, short nails and continues. "One weekend when I was sixteen - I think it was July - I was staying with my grandparents, when Mom showed up at the house. They sent me into the kitchen, and I heard them start to argue. From what I heard, all the crap that happened between them started because she didn't tell them what happened to her."

I raise an eyebrow. Most victims are embarrassed. Ashamed. But they do eventually tell the people around them. Their parents, a boyfriend or a close friend. Someone. "She didn't?"

"No. Not until it was obvious that she was pregnant. She went home, after it happened and her roommate convinced her to go to the police. But she was living on her own and she wasn't a minor. It was her choice to tell her parents. She was eight months pregnant, when they finally found out. They tried to help, but after I was born, she started drowning herself. And it was too late."

As a parent, I can imagine what it would feel like to know that one of my kids had been through hell and hadn't told me. Hadn't felt like they could tell me. And to watch one of them slip away from me. Watching one of them fall and not being able to do a thing about it. It would kill me.

Olivia shakes her head and tries to wiggle the silver band off her finger. She was right. It _is _stuck there. "Soap and water should get it off," I suggest, helpfully.

She gets up and makes her way across the hall and into the bathroom. I hear her running water, for a minute or two, and she reappears, the gleaming, wet ring held between her fingers. "I don't think I'll ever look at that the same way again," she murmurs, placing it on her dresser.

I smile, slightly. She holds out her left hand, and I find the ring she inherited. "Is it going to fit?" I question.

"Yeah. I had it sized for me, after Mom died. She and my grandmother had small hands. I thought that if I ever got married, I'd use it as my engagement ring," Olivia replies, as I slide it on. It's a perfect fit on her ring finger.

She presses her fingers under her eyes and I realize why. She's almost crying - _again_. "Liv?"

"Hm?" Her voice is thick.

"Is all the crying a good thing? Or should I be worried?"

She gives me a look of pure annoyance. "I'm allowed to cry."

"I didn't say you weren't. But crying usually means you're upset. _Really _upset, if it's you."

"I'm happy."

"You're crying because you're happy" I ask her, startled. Women. They cry during sad movies and they cry on their wedding days. What the hell is _that _about? To hear her say that she's _happy_, with tears in her eyes, is just like hearing her say that the sun rose in the west this morning. It takes a lot to make her cry. And even then, she doesn't really cry. Her eyes just get this wet, sad look.

She looks at me, like that should have been completely obvious. "Yes."

I don't think I'm ever going to understand her. But I don't care. "Did you call everyone that needed to be called?" I ask. I called my family and a few friends from a payphone in the hospital, the same night I asked her to marry me. She wasn't able to, until we asked for a phone to be set up in her room the next day.

"Yeah. I think there's some secret plan for a wedding shower in the works, already."

Crap. "Remind me to disappear that day, will you?" I question, as she sits beside me. Baby showers, wedding showers - I can't stand any of it. I feel like I don't belong.

"Do you _have _to be such a guy?" Olivia questions, giving me another look of mock-disgust. "It's just a party."

"A party where I definitely don't belong," I comment, earning myself a light punch in the shoulder.

"Fine," she replies, shaking her head. I can see the hint of amusement in her eyes. She doesn't know how much she gives away, in her face. In her eyes. If you look her in the eye, most of the time, you can tell what she's thinking.

"Where'd you put those pills?" I ask, checking my watch. The doctor prescribed her some painkillers.

"They're on the table," she replies.

I get her two of the pills and a glass of water, bringing it back to her. She swallows the medication and sets the glass of water on the bedside table. She seems to be most comfortable lying down. And the doctor told her to rest. So she's listening to him, at least.

I turn down the bed for her and let her crawl in.

"Comfortable?" I ask her, as she shifts ever so slightly, lying on her back. "You want another pillow or anything?"

"This is fine," she murmurs, as I push back her hair and kiss her on the forehead.

"You get some rest, huh?" I lightly stroke her cheek. "I'm still on rotation, though - I could get called in. You think you'll be okay, alone? Because if you're not, I can call Cragen, ask him for a day or two. He'll let it slide, because it's you."

"I'll be fine. And Kirsten, across the hall, is home. She works nights, so she's home during the day."

I blink. We've lived on this floor all of two months and she knows the neighbors? In most places, that would be considered normal. But this is New York. People don't bother to talk to each other on the street. Or get to know their neighbors. They mind their own business here. They seem to think it's safer. "You've gotten to know the neighbors, huh?"

"Yeah. They're good people. There's the couple next door - the Lindseys. Newlyweds. I can get them at night."

"They're not gonna be the only newlyweds here," I joke, earning a small smile.

It doesn't take her long to drift off. When she does, I tuck the covers around her and leave the room. Normally, I'd sit and watch her sleep, but she needs the rest. I don't want to disturb her.

I do get a phone call, about an hour after that. I peek in on her, seeing that she's sound asleep and peaceful. I don't want to wake her up. So instead, I pull a pen from my pocket and a sheet of paper from the notebook I carry and leave a note for her, on the table. I pull the covers a little higher around her and kiss her on the tip of her nose. She murmurs and turns her head.

The bottle of prescribed painkillers I leave close by, so she'll know where it is. I check the locks on the windows and step out the door. I hate to leave her. I've always hated leaving the woman I love at home, to go to work. It's always felt like I didn't have my priorities straight. My ex-wife's mother once told me that I needed to put my family first, not my job.

Maybe I did. I don't know. But I do know that I'm happy now. Usually, when a call comes in, it's for both of us. So I normally don't have to leave her. But when I have to, I hate it.

I shut the apartment door behind me, as quietly as I can. It's late. I could have been working all night, but the boss was willing to cut me some slack and let me go home to take care of her. She really does need someone here, even though she's too damned stubborn to admit it.

She's sound asleep. She doesn't wait up for me. She knows better. And if I do have to leave her at home, and I call her, she usually doesn't ask me when I'm coming home. She knows that I don't know.

I shed my shoes and my coat, and then my jacket and tie, moving as quietly as I can. She's a deep sleeper, but I don't see why I should make any more noise than I have to. Why disturb her?

I step into the bedroom, shedding my shirt. The small TV that's in the corner of the room is on, showing some infomercial. In the flickering light, I see her. She's lying in bed, on her back - the only position she can sleep in, right now - with the covers kicked off her.

I see that she's gone back to sleeping in an old t-shirt of mine, again. I've never understood why she does that or why she'd want to, but she does.

I shake my head, slightly. I don't know how I wound up with her. How could someone just walk away from her? Hurt her. During all the years we worked together, before this all happened, she didn't complain to me about her love life - she never thought I'd be interested - but somehow, I always was able to tell when a date went bad or when she'd been given the 'it's not you, it's me' speech.

I think she was about to give up on dating around the time when I started to notice her. I wasn't blind or stupid enough _not _to see the looks they gave her, when she walked into a room. But I'd never really thought about her like that, myself - keeping things professional was the smart thing to do.

It wasn't that I hadn't noticed her before. She was a friend. My partner. The woman I trusted to watch my back. But I'd never noticed her the way I was then. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me, at first. I thought she'd kick my ass, if she knew what I was thinking.

I knew she was a beautiful woman. I'd have to be stupid not to notice that. But I never thought about her. Never thought about starting something with her. Until then.

I didn't understand why she was still single. If the looks they gave her were any indication, most of the men in this city would like to be with her. Surely she could have found someone who'd be right for her. She blamed it on the job, but that couldn't be all of it. Someone would have been able to live with that. She was beautiful, intelligent, sexy - I didn't see what the problem was.

Maybe it was just me, but I didn't understand how someone could hurt her. How someone could deliberately cause her pain was beyond me. She didn't deserve it. What she deserved was someone who'd stand by her. Be there for her. Love her. Give her back what she gives to people.

She's not perfect. I find the remote and turn the TV off, looking at her sleeping face, in the dark. She's not. I never expected her to be. There's not a perfect person in the world. If she was perfect, I know she wouldn't be with me.

She's made her mistakes. Like everyone else has. And she tries to make up for them. We have our fights. Even though I usually get most of the blame for being an asshole to her, from other people, she'll seek me out and apologize. She doesn't let me take all the blame.

When we fight, we both have a part in it. She's said as many things to me that weren't exactly friendly, as I have to her. She doesn't let me cut her down and treat her like crap. She gives me back what she gets.

So she's not perfect. I knew that. And I don't care. She has her flaws, but which one of us doesn't? Neither one of us is perfect. But I love her.

I lean down and kiss her smooth cheek, softly. She mumbles and stirs, in a rustle of sheets. "El?" She blinks at me, sleepily, reaching for the lamp.

"Hey." I kneel down and look into her eyes. They're still fogged by sleep.

Olivia yawns and pulls the covers around her. "C'mere," she murmurs, nodding to the empty side of the bed. She can't stand an empty bed any more. She's gotten too used to lying beside me.

"Gimme a sec," I tell her, nodding. "I just got home."

She blinks again. "Cragen turn into a slavedriver?"

I laugh. "I know you wouldn't dare say that to his face. And, no, he didn't. He let me off to take care of you."

Olivia makes a face. "I"-

"Don't need to be taken care of." I can finish her sentences, easily. "I know. Don't start that again."

I clean up a little and brush my teeth - she won't let me near her until I do - and join her in bed. I can't hold her, because she can only lay flat on her back. But she seems intent on getting as close to me as she can.

"You weren't waiting up for me, were you?" I ask her, quietly.

"Nah. Late-night TV can put anyone to sleep," she answers. "Watching it for a while will put me out like a light. And nothing else was working."

She has her restless nights. Nights when she tosses and turns beside me or sits up all night, because she just can't sleep. I'm not really sure what it it - if it's the job or something else. There have been mornings when I've found her curled up on the couch, the TV still on. She won't tell me what keeps her up and I don't ask. Pushing her to tell me things that she doesn't want to tell me will only result in a fight.

She'll tell me when she's ready to. When she wants to. That's the way it's always been, between us. Just when I think I know her, she tells me something new. She doesn't keep secrets from me - there are just some things she'd rather keep to herself.

She doesn't like to leave herself open to a person. Spilling everything would leave her vulnerable. And she doesn't want to be seen like that. What she doesn't understand is that a lot of people who know her and know about her past are surprised that she's the way she is. That she hasn't let it all bring her down.

I'm one of them. She told me that when she was a teenager, her mother once looked her in the eye and told her she hated her. Drunk, of course, but it doesn't matter. To be a kid, hearing your own mother tell you she hates you - you'd never expect the kind of woman who's lying beside me to come from that.

She was strong enough to put it behind her. It still hurts her, no doubt, but she doesn't let it get to her. For her to become the strong, confident woman I know took a hell of a lot of work. And she did it. I don't know when she'll realize that no one's going to think of her as weak, for showing a little bit of emotion, considering what she's been through.

Olivia mumbles and drapes her right arm across me, determined to keep us connected, somehow. She's asleep, now. I smile, slightly, seeing the ring on her left hand, as she drapes her arm across her stomach. She's mine, now. And soon, it's going to be official. She'll make a beautiful bride.


	8. Chapter 8

8

I'm still not cleared for field duty, but I'm back at work. I can't sit at home and do nothing. I'd rather do paperwork than that. I might as well do something _productive _with my time.

So I spend my time doing some of my own paperwork and everyone else's. I'm going to be owed a hell of a lot of favors, after this.

I could have taken the paid leave, but there wouldn't be a point. I'd be going crazy, shut in that apartment. I'm well enough to be bored and going insane, so I might as well be working.

"That's not all yours, is it?" Cragen emerges from his office sanctuary, as I slave away. The boss knows my work habits. Unlike most of the guys, I don't sit on my paperwork for weeks. I don't wait to be yelled at, before I do it. I do it and get it out of the way.

"No," I reply, stacking one file on top of the others. "I'm doing it because it's something to do."

"You don't have to be here," Cragen tells me, for the fifth time. He tried to convince me to go home. He knows I hate desk duty just as much as anyone else.

"I know. But if I stay at home, you're gonna find me locked in a rubber room at Bellevue." I push my hair back and pick up another folder from the pile in front of me. "I need something to do."

The Captain shakes his head and passes me a fresh cup of coffee, as he walks back into his office, again.

Elliot returns to the squad, and joins me at our desks, as I work. "You under there, Liv?" He questions.

"Funny, smartass. Most of this is yours," I retort, as he steals a pen from the holder on my desk and begins to chew on the end. I can't break him of that habit, yet.

"You asked for it," he answers, his words distorted by the plastic.

"I know. And because I'm saving you from getting your ass kicked and from a month's worth of all-nighters, you owe me for this."

"I'll buy you dinner tonight," he replies.

"You think that's going to make up for it? We're not talking about dinner at that diner around the corner," I tell him, stretching. "That's not gonna work."

"I'll cook for you."

I shake my head. I'll admit it - he _is _the better cook, out of the two of us. The only thing I seem to be good at is burning things and breaking the occasional plate. "Yeah - that'll do."

He shakes his head and tosses the ruined pen into the trash. "I don't get it, Liv. I'm supposed to be the one that can't cook."

"I know. But you've had practice. When I cooked, I was just cooking for me. And just because I'm female doesn't mean that I was born with some skill in the kitchen. A friend of mine from college couldn't even make a box of macaroni and cheese - she always burned it."

Whatever reply he might have made is cut off by another voice. "She can't cook, but I doubt you're marrying her for the food."

I turn around, looking at the woman standing behind me. "Dana - what the hell?" I blink at my old friend from childhood, Dana Libretti.

She frees her long black hair from it's usual ponytail and lets it fall around her face and over her shoulders. She's shorter than I am, with a solid build. Her skin has this gold hue, inherited from her Latino mother.

"Aren't you supposed to working?" I question. My old friend, who's been more like a sister to me, is a paramedic. And normally, if I remember right, she'd be working right now.

"Nah. Mike and I swapped shifts with Montgomery and Corey. We put it in to the boss months ago, but it took him till now to get around to switching the rosters. I gotta spend more time with the kids. They're growing up too damned fast."

I nod. I'm not a parent, but her two kids do seem to be growing up faster than I thought was possible.

"So, congratulations, you." Dana pokes me in the shoulder. "I was wondering when you were ever gonna get married."

I shrug. "I was waiting for the right guy."

"Mm. Have I ever told you that I used to think you had no taste in men at all?"

I laugh, quietly. "No."

"Well, you didn't. I was wondering when the hell you were going to find someone that I could actually see you with. Lemme see the rock," she extends one hand, palm up.

I show her my left hand and she blinks, seeing the ring. "That's Lily's, right?"

"Yeah," I reply, drawing my hand back and rearranging a few things.

"You know, I called home, after you called me," Dana tells me, getting herself a chair. "I don't know how Dad took it - you know him. He doesn't talk much. But Mom - Jesus. She's happy, 'cause she gets to play mother-of-the-bride all over again."

My friend's mother often tried to fill the gaps for me. Tried to do things that my own mother should have been doing, as I was growing up. With a family of her own and a job, she still had time for me. I could always get a bed on their couch, a hug and a tissue, or a good meal.

"She doesn't have to," I protest.

"She wants to. I'm the only girl, remember? She wants to be the mother of the bride again. She didn't have a church wedding, when she and Dad got married. Couldn't afford their rings, never mind a real wedding. I know it ain't the same thing as having Serena here, but you gotta let her in on it."

"How could I say no?" I question. "Your parents are probably the only reason I'm not more screwed up than I already am."

"Screwed up? You? Nah. You got it all wrong. But I do think you're nuts, right now."

"Why?"

"You're here. Working. And it hasn't even been two weeks."

I shake my head. "I'm fine. I was going to go crazy at home. I needed something to do."

Dana rolls her eyes. "There's gotta be something wrong with you, if you're here to do paperwork. I hear all about how much you guys hate paperwork. I've been hearing it for the last fifteen years of my life."

I blink, startled. Having set my friend up with her husband, who had been a new transfer into my precinct, I knew they'd been married for a while, but hearing the number . . . I shake my head. "Are you just trying to make me feel old or has it really been that long?"

Dana shakes her head. "Yeah. I found out I was pregnant with Amy six months after we got married. She was born the year after, right? We got nothing on Mom and Dad, though. Forty-five years, last year."

"Yeah. I know. Your mother invited me to the party, just like I was family, remember?"

"With the amount of time you spent running around with me and the boys, you _are _family, to her," Dana informs me. "Or she could have been so damned busy back then that she just mixed you up with the rest of us." She grins.

I shift stacks of files around on my desk, to make a little more room. There's lingering worry in my friend's expressive black eyes. They always give away what's going on in her mind, even if she doesn't want them to. "What's up?" I question, quietly.

She shakes her head. "Amy's growing up so damned fast. She's hardly ever at home, now. I think about the kind of shit you and I did when we were her age and it scares the hell outta me that she might go out and do the same stuff."

"She's a smart kid," I protest. My goddaughter is a smart girl. Who seems to be an old soul at heart. She's mature. More so than most of the kids her age.

"You weren't?" Dana fixes me with sharp eyes. "You seemed to be pretty smart yourself and you were still out running around. Crawling back up the fire escape at three in the morning. I was either with you or covering your ass for you, remember? I know. This city hasn't gotten any safer since we were kids."

"The brass keeps saying it has," I reply.

"That's bull. A week ago, I worked a night shift, 'cause the boss needed someone to cover. We got a call for a fifteen-year-old girl - out of it, not breathing. She OD'd on something at a party - we didn't even know what the hell she was on. She crashed in the bus and we couldn't get her back. The doctor pronounced her - DOA. I was talking to one of the nurses on the floor, after that - the cops finally tracked down the parents, three hours later. They had no idea what the hell was going on in her life. No idea where she'd been." There's frustration in my paramedic friend's voice.

And I understand where it comes from. I see parents like that a lot. Who think they're doing a fine job raising their kids. Think they're raising good kids. But who can't be bothered to get involved with their own children's lives. Who can't be bothered to get to know their kids' friends.

Dana props her forehead on the palm of her hand, sighs, and looks at me. "What the hell was I thinking, bringing kids into the world here? I watched the news. I knew what I saw, every day on the street, before I threw out the birth control. If I was thinking straight, I wouldn't have done it." She shakes her head. "I know Amy's a smart kid, but she's still a kid. You seemed to be a smart one and you did some stupid things. I don't wanna see _my _kid running around with a guy in his thirties when she's seventeen."

I comb my fingers through my hair. "She's jailbait. Definite jailbait." I sigh.

"Yeah. I know the law. I'm married to one of you. Related by marriage to four of you. But messing with you could've landed your 'boyfriend' in jail, back then, but it didn't happen, did it?" Dana raises an eyebrow.

"No. But there's a difference between the kid I was and the kid your daughter is. She has two things that I didn't, called 'parents.' I didn't have to crawl out the window and down the fire escape to sneak out - I could've just walked right out the door. I could've gotten away with anything. There was no one around to notice what I did."

"I can't watch her every single minute," Dana protests.

"You try. My mother didn't give a damn. She wasn't with it enough to notice when I was gone, half the time. If your kid was out all night, you'd notice. You'd wait up. Give her hell and ground her ass when she walked in the door. Amy's got a father who's one hell of a shot, too," I reply.

What I did when I was young scares me, now. Wandering around Manhattan at two or three o'clock in the morning, anything could have happened to me. I could have easily been one of the girls I see. It scares the hell out of me, to know what could have happened to me, because of my stupidity.

"An older guy can win a girl over, easy. I watched it happen to you. A young kid - it doesn't take much."

"Amy's a hell of a lot smarter than I was when I was her age. Besides that, any older guy who messes with your little girl might as well just put himself on the next bus to Rikers. She's got a father, three uncles and an aunt on the force, a grandfather who's a retired cop with more friends than he can count and an uncle who's an Assistant District Attorney. Trust me - any older guy who wanders into the picture is as good as screwed, especially if he happens to meet me. You know I'd do _anything _for her."

"_Spoil _her is what you do," Dana grumbles, giving me a mock dirty look. "Wish _you _had a kid _I_ could spoil and send home for you to deal with. Get 'em all worked up on sugar and send 'em home. Then maybe you'd _stop _it. Mom and Dad and Joe and Maggie spoil her enough as it is."

"They're grandparents. That's what they _do_, remember?" I raise an eyebrow. "That's the whole point of a kid having grandparents."

"Yeah? What's _your _excuse?"

"Do I need one?"

Dana fixes me with sharp eyes, impatiently. "I wanna know why you spend more money on my kid than you do on yourself. You've got hands that most women would die for and you won't go get your nails done, but you'll shell out for front row seats at some rock concert, just because you wanted to try and destroy my daughter's hearing. I don't get it."

"And getting my nails done would be a waste of time and money. I'd chip 'em in about three seconds," I answer. "That's why I keep 'em short. If I was on permanent ass duty, maybe. But when I'm on the street, there's no point. And I _wasn't _trying to deafen Amy. She wanted to go."

Dana shrugs. "Even Dad wouldn't pay for that. She's his first grandchild, too and he wouldn't."

"I didn't get to do things like that, when I was a kid, remember? Maybe I want someone else to have what I didn't. My shrink could probably come up with some theory as to why, but I know what it's like to miss out on things. Beg and plead for concert tickets and not get them and then hear everyone else around you talking about it the next day."

"_I_ need to talk to your shrink," the stocky paramedic sitting beside me pushes back her hair. "But do me a favor? Have your own kidand spoil _it_ to death, instead of _mine_, okay?"

"With what I've got for history? Nah. I don't think so."

Dana rolls her eyes at me, in exasperation. "Not _that _again. I thought I beat that outta you. I know there are some crazy people going around saying that violence is inherited and all that crap - I don't buy any of it. I'm not a doctor, but I know what I see, out there." She jerks her head back, toward the windows at the front of the room. Do you honestly think you're gonna create some monster of a kid or something?"

"I don't know. It's not that, anymore. Not so much. But alcoholism - they've been saying for a couple of years that it can run in families."

"A predisposition to bury yourself in the bottom of the bottle can be inherited," Dana replies, "but you're not gonna tell me you're gonna sit there and let some medical study that they're not even sure of stop you. You're not gonna sit there and worry about the genes the rest of your life, are you?"

I look up, startled. "Where the hell did that come from? I never would have expected you to tell me that."

"I read some of the medical journals and a few of the studies, now and then, so some kid resident that's only a few years older than my daughter and fresh outta med school can't make me look like an idiot," she answers, seeing my confusion, "not that all of it makes a hell of a lot of sense, but I'm not letting some kid who calls himself a doctor think he's smarter than me. You know, the new batch of kids they've got in the ER at Mercy - the residents, the interns, the new attending - they hate us almost as much as you guys do. I never thought I'd be around to see _that _happen."

I roll my eyes. It's been a few years since I walked a beat. So I almost forgot about the on-going war between the Police Department and the Fire Department. It's been that way for decades. "It's not you guys we've got an issue with. Not the medics. It's the bucket boys."

"Ah, whatever."

"So it hasn't stopped yet up there? I thought one of the bosses, from either side was gonna step in. Call a truce."

"Nah. Half the time the bosses don't know what's going on. And it's you guys who usually start the shit, anyway, " Dana replies.

I shake my head. My old precinct, where my friend still works, was a nuthouse. There was always some plan to pull a practical joke on the guys in the firehouse, sometimes in revenge. "Not always. Remember that time when two or three of you swiped the keys to Morales' squad and swapped 'em with the keys to Henderson's?"

Dana grins at me, revealing her teeth. "I was in on that one, you know?"

I roll my eyes. "Yeah. _That _started the war of the month. You had two guys who couldn't get in their cars. I would've thought you knew - _don't _get between a man and his car."

"Well, it didn't take you guys long to come back, 'cause you had every single car around the house towed the next morning. Even the Lieutenant's car. And, man, was he pissed. Leaving us to deal with a pissed-off boss for the next month - you guys _are _evil." She leans back and crosses her legs, looking at me.

"Hey, I had to listen to my partner curse me out in Spanish for half an hour while we waited for someone to find the spare keys. He thought I had something to do with it. What the hell did I do to you to deserve that, huh?"

Dana winces. "Sorry. I forgot you were riding with Morales. We just thought it might be funny to see him pissed."

"Oh, it was real funny. Want me to call him and tell him you were in on it? Then you can see it for yourself."

"No. But he must have run outta words after the first ten minutes or so. He woulda eventually started to sound just like a stuck record, just like my uncle Manny used to, when he got pissed."

I shake my head. "I'm glad that I got out of that crap. Practical jokes, now and then - fine. But that was like all out war."

"War? Nah." Dana shakes her head. "It was fun. Nothing different than what I grew up in. Pins and stupid little joke things all over the house. Bucket of water above the door - Bobby got Dad with that, once. Jimmy used to scare the hell out of Mom with rubber spiders and things like that. I like it."

"But we had to work together, right, on the street? And it just got in the way." I remember the bitterness. The time I spent seeing two guys in different uniforms shooting each other dirty looks and avoiding each other, each one plotting something.

"It was fun, though. You gotta admit." She's grinning again.

"It would've been, if they didn't take it so seriously."

"This is a bunch of _men _we're talking about, honey. Mess with 'em, it bothers their ego. I oughta know. Pull one over on them, they feel stupid. And pride makes 'em take it seriously." Dana sits forward again. "When are you going dress-shopping, huh?"


	9. Chapter 9

Her bandages are gone and her stitches are out. The doctor was happy with the way she'd healed. Neatly, with no infection or anything like that. But I know she's conscious of the scars left behind. The Department let her back in the field. So she's by my side again. Where she wants to be, apparently.

We were out tonight, having a few drinks with the guys. Cragen even joined us, down at the pub. When Olivia laid her head on my shoulder and stopped talking entirely, I knew she was exhausted. She wanted to go. She wouldn't say it, but I could tell.

She's getting changed, in the bedroom, and I'm being bored by some dull newscaster, who's droning on and on.

I blink and look at my watch. She's been changing for close to twenty minutes now. And she's not showering. With the pipes in this ancient building, I'd know. I flick off the TV and head down the hall.

"Liv?" I question, softly, poking my head around the doorframe of the bedroom.

She's standing in front of the mirror, dressed only in her dark pants and light bra. She doesn't look at me. I know she doesn't think she's as beautiful as the rest of us do, but she doesn't stand in front of the mirror and pick out every little flaw with her looks. Not that there's much for her to pick out, in my mind.

I step into the room and stand behind her, kissing her ear. "Hey. What're you doing, huh?"

She pulls away from me and twists her body a little. So I can see her right side, reflected in the mirror. There's a sunken, round scar at the bottom of her rib cage. It's thick and white against her skin. Then, she turns a little more and lets me see her back. Another scar, similar to the one on her front.

I know she's not a vain person. In no way is she obsessed with her looks. So I don't understand why she's focusing so much on the scars. They don't bother me. If she wasn't pointing them out to me, I wouldn't see them. She's beautiful. Inside and out. And that's all I see.

I reach for her hand and take it in mine. "You should be proud, Liv. You've got something to show off in the locker room now."

She tries to smile and fails, miserably.

"What? So you've got a couple of scars. So what? The only one that's going to be seeing those is me. And you know what? I don't care. I don't see 'em. You're so damned beautiful that I don't see 'em." I let go of her hand and rub the nape of her neck with my thumb.

She shivers. "You don't?"

"No. Look at you." I kiss the top of her head, softly. "Trust me."

She smiles and shakes her head, as if she doesn't believe me. She's gorgeous. But she doesn't see that. She can't understand why I like to just sit and look at her. Why I wake up before the alarm goes off in the morning so I can watch her sleeping.

I put a hand on her shoulder and turn her, gently. I make her look at me.

When I tell her how beautiful she is, she rolls her eyes at me and lists all the things that aren't beautiful about her, in her mind. The slight lines forming around the corners of her eyes and her mouth. The fact that she's put on ten pounds in her hips from our eating habits. That the dye in her hair is no longer just to change it's color - it's covering things. Her pale skin and the dark bags that are under her eyes.

She doesn't see what I see. She doesn't see the way her smile lights up the room. I could have died, when Cragen introduced us for the first time, and she hit me with that smile.

Her courage and her strength. She's done things that I know I wouldn't have been able to do. Lived through things that would have made the average person throw up their hands and walk away. Give up.

She's strong and stubborn enough to work in a man's world. According to her, a female cop is held to much higher standards. Expected to be better than the men who work around her. She's met that standard, obviously, if she's gotten as far as she has.

My partner and my fiancee is one of the most empathetic people I've ever met. She takes someone else's pain like it's her own. Especially if it's a kid. I wonder how she hasn't just burned out and fallen apart, by now.

So many cases have hit home for her over the years. Each case and every victim takes a little part of her. And she still shows up on Monday, ready to work. Ready to take whatever they throw at us next.

I just wish she could see what everyone else sees. The victims she coaxes to tell their story and get help are grateful, afterwards. She's willing to go above and beyond the call of duty to help. I've seen her give her number to a frightened victim.

Not her cell phone or the line at her desk - her home number. So they can get her any time, day or night. Even if it's her time. When she's off duty. How many cops in this city would be willing to deal with a case on their time?

She's devoted to the job. She gives it everything she's got. And she still doesn't think it's enough. She doesn't think she's doing enough to help. I don't know why she thinks that. She does more than enough. More than any boss would ever ask of her.

When she first came to the unit, I didn't expect her to last this long. I expected her to do a couple of years, get burned out and leave, feeling like she'd done something good. I expected her to burn out within the first six months, because she got so involved.

Olivia's proven me wrong, though. She's shown no sign of burning out yet. She's been in the squad close to eight years. She feels for every victim who crosses her path. She doesn't get over-involved, the way she used to, but she still feels their pain. She's learned where to draw the line.

I take her hand and kiss her palm, softly. "You finish getting changed, huh? Let's go to bed."

She nods and yawns, combing fingers through her hair. Olivia undresses, swiftly, putting her clothes in the hamper tucked away in the closet. She pulls that old t-shirt of mine over her head and kisses me on the cheek, softly. She yawns again, hugely, and crawls under the covers.

She curls up next to mine, when I join her, her back against my chest. She can't sleep facing me. It bothers her.

"'Night," Olivia yawns, snaking her arms around her pillow.

I kiss the back of her neck, lightly. She shivers. She hates it when I do that. Says it gives her a chill. I rub a hand along her arm, feeling goose bumps. Olivia sighs, annoyed with me for bothering her and pulls the covers around her body.

"I'll stop," I promise, quietly, pushing her hair off her forehead. "C'mere. Lemme hold you."

She shifts herself back into my arms, sighing. "Can we go to sleep now?" She asks, irritation in her voice. "We've gotta work tomorrow."

"'Night. Love you, sweetheart." After murmuring those words to someone else, when I was just going through the motions, saying them and meaning them still feels strange.

"Love you too." Her voice is drowsy. She rubs her cheek against the pillow and sighs. I feel her relax, sinking into sleep. She's right. Tomorrow's just another day at work.

I shake my head at the mess on the coffee table in front of me. I still feel the urge to pinch myself. Especially now. Looking at the collection of bridal magazines that Dana tossed on the table in front of me, when she came in this morning.

"Is this real? Or am I just hallucinating?" I question, softly. It's a Saturday. Elliot's taken the kids out for the afternoon. I love being involved with them, but they need some one-on-one time with their father. Sometimes, I have to step back.

"If you were hallucinating, you'd think I was purple," my friend informs me, a serious look on her face that's ruined by the laughter in her eyes. "And I look normal to you, right?"

"Yeah." I shake my head again. "But what the hell am I supposed to _do_ with all this?" I wave my hands at the table. "It's all out of my budget."

Dana pushes herself out of the chair and sits cross-legged on the carpet, looking completely at home, in jeans and a t-shirt. "Look," she tells me, impatiently, thrusting one of the glossy magazines at me. "Find something you like and then we'll go find stores you can afford and find something close to it. That's what I did, when Chris and I got married, remember? And we were twenty-two and broke."

As I thumb through the magazine she shoved into my hands, the closest person I'll ever have to a sister glances up at me. "Have you thought about it? Being a mom?" She questions, her eyes serious and bare of their usual hint of laughter. "'Cause that's what normally happens, after you tie the knot, you know."

I shake my head, looking at the fifth or sixth picture of some impossibly skinny model who just looks too perfect to be real in a wedding gown. "He's got four kids already," I point out, quietly. "I don't really think he wants another one."

"What about you?"

"It's not like it's a one-sided decision. I can't just decide I want to have a baby and trap into being a father by getting rid of the birth control. I don't want that."

She tucks her knees up under her and sighs. "You've got a good man there, you know? His desk reminds me of Dad's, when we were kids. Pictures all over the place. You know he's a great father."

"Yeah. Believe me, I know. But _five _kids? People _do _have limits, Dana. And we're not exactly young, either."

"Mom was older than you are, when Paul was born," she points out, naming the last and the youngest of her brothers. "And then, by some miracle of God, they discovered there _are _reliable methods of birth control."

"Me? Raise a kid? I doubt it."

"When are you gonna get it? There's not something in you that's gonna make you hurt a kid. It ain't there. I don't know what I'm gonna have to do to make that sink into that thick head of yours."

"No. I know that," I answer, nodding. "I know that I wouldn't hurt any kid I might have. I know that."

"Then what the hell's your problem?" She fixes me with those intense black eyes. "You know, there are women out there who would do pretty much _anything_ for even a _chance_ at getting pregnant."

"I know. It's how I grew up that bothers me. What do I know about raising kids? I don't want to screw it up and have another kid turn out like me."

"Parents trust you with their kids," Dana points out. "And you were great with mine, when they were small. You know what your childhood was like. You wouldn't put another kid through that. I don't see what you're worrying about."

I rub one eye. "Well, you know, a skinned knee usually didn't get me a hug, when I was growing up," I comment, softly.

My mother always seemed to be distant, when I was a child. She provided for me. Fed me and put clothes on my back. But other than that, she didn't seem to be interested in me. She didn't feel any kind of love for me. I was just a burden that came into the world and made her life harder than it had to be.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't have a parent who was there. Who at least _pretended _to give a damn. It's what I went through, being pretty much ignored. How the hell am I supposed to know what to do, coming from that?"

"Hey. Stop it. You're talking to a parent here. Loving your kid isn't something you learn. It's something you _do_. Your mother treated you pretty bad - don't ask me how she did it, either. But that doesn't mean you'll treat your kids like that. It might even make you a better parent."

"Yeah? How?"

"Because you know what it's like to be ignored. To be able to do anything, because there isn't anyone around to give a damn. You know what you went through." My old friend, who's never afraid to speak her mind looks at me, seriously. "Think about it."

We go quiet, for a minute or two. She's letting me think about our conversation. "You know where you're going to get married?" Dana questions, from her seat on the floor. "You call the churches?"

"I brought up just going downtown and having the Justice of The Peace marry us, but he wants a real wedding," I sigh, leaning back against the couch. "We don't really know yet. He's divorced, but his church won't recognize that or us, unless"-

"He went through the archdiocese and got his first marriage annulled. And if he did that, _if _they annulled it, the marriage would have never existed and the kids would technically be illegitimate, to the church."

I blink. "What the"-

"Bobby's wife tried to have their marriage annulled, after they got divorced," she replies, coolly. "Dragged him through a year's worth of shit, for no good reason. She got the house, the kid and the car and it wasn't enough for her. She wanted to erase the fact that they'd ever been married in the church, so she could get remarried. I know how it works."

I sigh. The first of her younger brothers is a beat cop. His divorce was nasty, eventually becoming a drawn-out fight between lawyers, as cop divorces are known to do. "You know, stuff like that makes me realize why I didn't get married."

"Why?"

"Cop divorces. Every time I met a guy I liked, who seemed decent enough, someone in the house would get the papers. And then I'd hear it in the locker room, a few months down the line, how nasty it was getting. How much of a nightmare it was."

Dana shakes her head. "It ain't that. I know it's not. You hadn't met anyone you could see yourself marrying. I get that. But you're happy now. It doesn't take an idiot to see that."

I blink. "Is it obvious?"

"Hey. Soon-to-be-newlywed - you're glowing out your ass, honey. You've actually got some color in your face, for once. And you're happy." She shakes her head and leans back against the solid arm of the chair she was sitting in. "'Happy' - never thought I'd be able to use that word in a sentence that actually involved you."

I roll my eyes. "Dana," I complain.

She cuts me off. "I'm serious. You weren't exactly a happy person, until now. Ask anyone. Now look." She thrusts one of the magazines at me again. "I don't want to spend the whole day sitting here."


	10. End

_McCarthy Residence_

_934 West End Avenue._

_June 15, 2006._

_10:15 am._

I'm sitting alone in one of the spare bedrooms in Dana's childhood home, where her parents still live. I'm only about four blocks from the apartment where I spent the early years of my life, with my mother. Something about that just feels strange. I should be sharing this day with her. Not the mother of my best friend and family.

I'm not going to upset myself today. Nope. Not happening. Today's the day. I'm getting married. And I'm not going to think about things that'll upset me.

At least there are people here, to celebrate this with me. At least I didn't sneak away with my older boyfriend and get married in a church somewhere in the middle of New Jersey, when I was sixteen, like we'd planned.

I hear a door open, downstairs. Footsteps on the old wooden floors. A bunch of male voices, all talking at once.

I get up and leave the room, emerging into the hallway. Dana and her mother were supposed to be up here with me, doing something with my hair, but they both got distracted.

I lean down over the railing, fully aware that I look like shit, dressed in sweats and a borrowed button-down of Elliot's, without a speck of makeup. My first instinct was right. My friend's younger brothers, the men I've known since childhood, have arrived.

I watch each of the McCarthy boys bend to hug their mother, from the top of the stairs. They vary in height and size - anywhere from a solid, muscular six-foot-two to a skinny five-foot-six. Their complexions vary, from a deep gold-brown, inherited from their Puerto Rican mother to a tanned white.

"Ma? Where's the bride-to-be hidin' out?" The second-oldest of the 'boys', Jimmy questions his mother.

"You lookin' for me?" I call down, grinning.

He looks up and grins back at me, white teeth flashing against his tan face. "Get your ass down here, you."

I make my way down the stairs, shaking my head. "I was coming down, anyway. Don't want you thinking I take orders from just anyone."

The rest of the guys start laughing, as Jimmy rolls his eyes at me and gives me a light punch on the shoulder, like a brother would.

"Ow," I complain, faking hurt and rubbing the spot he hit. "Take it easy on me, will you? I'm just a city girl."

"'City girl' my ass," the middle brother, Danny, cuts in, snorting. "You bounce his ass from here to Jersey and you know it."

The rest of the group nods in agreement and the oldest of them, Bobby, fixes me with serious black eyes. "You're gonna get married to some guy we don't even know. Why didn't we meet him, huh? We wouldn't've hurt him."

"Well, not much," Mike, the second-to-youngest adds, grinning at me. "We wouldn't've done any kinda permanent damage - we woulda left him in one piece for ya."

I roll my eyes and shake my head. "You guys are so damned full of it, you know that?"

"Dad and Dana tell us that, all the time," Paul, the 'baby' informs me and I laugh, quietly. "Ma - where is Dad?" He questions, turning to address his mother.

The mother of all of these men, slender, five-foot-three Maria McCarthy looks up at her son. "He's out. Having a word with the groom," she replies, the barest trace of a lilt that hasn't been erased by years of living in America in her words.

"Uh-oh," Bobby sighs and claps me on the shoulder, as he walks by. "You know, you might not be getting married, after all, if Dad's got something to say to this poor guy. He almost spilt Chris and Dana up, before they got married, 'cause he went and scared the hell outta Chris."

"Can it, Bobby, you jackass," Dana warns, coming into the hall from the kitchen, hands tucked deep into the pockets of her jeans.

Sensing a brother-sister fight on the way, Maria steps between her children, to intervene. "Stop. Take her to get dressed," she orders her daughter, firmly. "Bobby - your father wanted you to take a look at the tires on the car." As the mother of seven high-energy kids, she learned to hold her ground and not let them push her over, even with her small size.

Dana and I make our way back up the stairs and her daughter, my goddaughter, Amy has taken over the spare bed in the room.

"What Bobby said about Dad," Dana murmurs to me, as she sits me down in front of the mirror again, "ain't true. He went and had a talk with Chris, but he didn't scare him that badly. It's just Bobby being an asshole."

I roll my eyes. "How did I know that?"

"'Cause being an asshole is second nature for Bobby," she replies, as her mother enters the room again. My teenage goddaughter perches on the edge of the bed in the room, watching as her mother and grandmother work my hair into another style other than how I usually wear it.

When they're done, I have to blink to make sure I'm looking at me. Rather than just leaving my hair to fall around my face, like I normally do, they combed it back a little, giving it a new look. I look completely different. I look fine, without makeup, which is kind of a shock.

Dana unzips the bag containing the dress I bought for today. It took months for me to find one that I loved, instead of simply liked that I could afford. But it was worth it.

I didn't want anything too glittery or too showy. I wanted something elegant and simple. I didn't really want a dress that looked like something out of a fairytale.

She and her mother unzip the back of the dress, helping me to slip it over my head and making sure it falls right around my body. Old, work-worn hands tug at the zipper at the back, pulling it up, quickly.

I like the way it looks. It looks even better than it did when I tried it on the store. It doesn't have a train or a huge skirt. It's basically a white sheath, with spaghetti-thin straps over my shoulders. There's some beading at the front, embroidery at the hem of the skirt, but it's not overwhelming.

"Gloves?" Dana offers them to me. They're white, elbow-length. The ones that came with the dress.

I shake my head. "Do you think I let you drag me to get my nails done for nothing?"

She laughs. "C'mere. Veil's gotta go on. You gotta sit. I'm not tall enough."

I somehow manage to sit, arranging the dress around me. I wince, when a sharp pain bites into my scalp. "Ouch!" I complain.

"Sorry." She murmurs, hairpins of some kind in her teeth. She pins the tiara and veil to my head, keeping it back out of my face.

When that's done, she and her mother go to work on my face. They bicker over colors, without even consulting me. But I agreed to let them do this. So I don't think butting in would be wise.

When they're done, I blink again. The makeup's soft. Lighter than what I normally wear. It softens my face. I'm still not sure if I'm looking at me.

When I get up and turn around, I see Amy looking at me, startled. "Wow." She says, quietly, green eyes taking in my appearance.

"Ah. Hang on." Dana holds up my grandmother's string of pearls. I put them on, liking the way they sit on my neck. "Earrings?" She questions and I shake my head. I very rarely wear the old pearls, because I don't have earrings to go with them.

Maria disappears, briefly and comes back with a box. She opens it, showing me a pair of simple pearl studs. "These were a gift from Tony," she explains, naming her husband, as I bend and tilt my head to allow her to put them in for me.

"Ma!" One of the guys - I've never been able to tell their voices apart - calls from downstairs. "We've got company."

With that shout, I'm left alone in the room. I take a minute to step back and look at myself. Never thought I'd be looking at myself in a wedding dress. I've stood back and watched a friend look at herself in a mirror, after helping her get dressed for one of the most important days of her life. But I never though it would be me here.

I'm digging through bags and boxes, looking for my shoes when the cell phone that's in my purse rings. I blink. It's my wedding day. Why the hell is it ringing now?

I find it and flip it open. "Yeah?"

"Hey." His voice, on the line, softened with the tiniest hint of affection. "You didn't think you were gonna get called in, did you?"

I shake my head and laugh, quietly. "No. But it wouldn't have surprised me if I did."

"Nervous?" I hear the amusement in his voice.

"A little." I can admit it to him.

"You dressed yet?"

"Un-huh," I answer, finally finding my shoes. "What about you and the boys?" I question. He and his brothers and Dickie have taken over our apartment to use as their own dressing room. When the kids found out we were getting married, they all insisted on getting involved. Maureen's coming by with Kathleen and Lizzie, in a bit.

"Working on it," he answers. "Dickie - c'mere!" I hear him call to his son and then return to our conversation. "What about the girls?"

"They were gonna get dressed and then come over," I answer. "They should be here anytime."

"Okay, Liv. Love you." I hear jeers and jokes being directed at him, from his brothers, when he says that.

"Tell 'em to go to hell," I tell him, trying not to laugh. "Love you too."

"Guys - she says to tell you all to go to hell." I hear him inform his older brothers and they laugh, again. I hear a few scattered comments from them and then Elliot's voice, again. "So I'll see you in a little while?"

"Yeah. I'll see ya." We end the call and I slide my feet into my shoes, curious to see who the "company" is.

When I make my way down the stairs, I discover both Don and Dana's father, Tony McCarthy, waiting in the front hall. Knowing that I didn't have a father of my own, my friend's father took it on himself to try to fill some of the holes for me. The things that I was missing, as a kid. To give me a father figure when I needed one. I know I wouldn't have turned out as close to normal as I have, if it wasn't for my best friend's parents.

"You look beautiful, honey," Tony informs me, his voice thick with a Brooklyn accent that comes out in his daughter's voice, now and again. "Give an old man a hug, huh?"

I smile and oblige. He's a solid man. Dana inherited his stocky build. He's been a working man for most of his life, trying to support a growing family. I pull back and look into old dark eyes, set deep in a tanned face that's been marked by fire, on the left side.

"You did all right. He's a good man," Tony informs me, seriously, looking me straight in the eye, like he always has.

"Don?" I turn to my boss, unsure of what to do. He's never played favorites with me. I'm an officer under his command, on the clock. There have been times when he's been more like a father than a commanding officer.

He's always been careful not to make anything too obvious, though. Sending flowers to my apartment after my mother's death was a quiet gesture - one that wouldn't really be noticed, because everyone - friends, my co-workers, my mother's colleagues at the university - was sending me flowers. But I understood what it meant, in it's own way.

I don't know what I should do. Hug him or just stand back. The man's about to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day and he's my boss. Typical. Whenever I try to do anything, it always has to get complicated. Sometimes, I wish life would just be simple, for one day.

Making up my mind, I let him hug me, briefly, then look up, seeing a blonde head peeking around the open screen door.

"Hey, Maureen." I greet my oldest to-be-stepdaughter as she steps inside, her younger sisters close behind. I wasn't about to force them into horrible dresses that they hated, if they stood in my wedding, so I let them pick a color we could all agree on. The blue works perfectly and everyone seems to be happy with how they look.

"Olivia." She hugs me, quickly, smiling. "You look incredible."

I smile and Kathleen allows me to hug her briefly. I hear Maureen turn to Don and greet him, as Lizzie links her arm through mine. These kids are great. I wasn't so sure how they'd respond to me, but they didn't seem to mind. They didn't try to run me out of their father's life.

I introduce the girls to Dana and her family - her mother and brothers in the kitchen, her father in the living room.

We manage to get the flowers sorted out, so everyone has what they need. I'm still not convinced this is happening. That I'm going to wake up and be single all over again.

Dana's still playing with her daughter's fine dark hair, trying to get it pinned up, when I hear the familiar blip of a police siren from the street outside the house. The siren sounds again and I hear more cars pull up.

I trade looks with Don, as we stand in the house's cramped kitchen. He shrugs and runs a hand over his bald head - he's just as confused as I am.

The dress and the heels make it hard to move as quickly as I usually do, but when I get to the window at the front of the house, I see two marked cars parked in front of the sidewalk, lights flashing. The sirens wail and I turn around, looking at the faces around me.

Dana looks back at me, shaking her head. "It wasn't me," she promises, holding up her hands, innocently. "You've got Chris to blame for this one."

Her husband. He was supposed to be here, but he's a homicide detective with the same erratic schedule that I have. He got called in early this morning. I roll my eyes. "Someday, you two are gonna drive me crazy - if you haven't already done it," I comment.

She grins, broadly. "You know you love us, anyway." She slings her arm around my shoulders and laughs. "C'mon. Traffic's a nightmare and we'll get there on time with these guys."

"A nightmare isn't strong enough of a word," another male voice comments, this one with a strong Queens' accent, compared to the faint trace of a Brooklyn accent that Dana's brothers carry in their words.

I turn my head, seeing my best friend's husband step through the door. "I would've been here earlier," Chris Libretti informs me, bending to kiss his wife on the cheek, "but the bridges are both insane."

"You're here," I grin and hug him, briefly. "So the guys out front - that was your idea."

"Um-hm." He grins, flashing white teeth at me. He's not strikingly handsome - his face is plain, but the green eyes set above a small nose always catch a woman's attention. When I met him, I knew his quiet nature and natural sense of humor would work perfectly with my rookie paramedic's friends' high-energy craziness. "You look incredible," Chris informs me. "Every time I see you cleaned up, I wish I'd married _you_."

Dana kicks him sharply, extracting a yell of pain from her husband. "What the hell was _that _for?" He demands.

"Hitting on my best friend," she informs him. "You had your chance, about fifteen years ago, bud. So unless you wanna spend some serious time getting friendly with the couch, you better remember you married me."

"Okay, fine. Congratulations, Liv."

"Thanks," I shake my head, trying not to roll my eyes at the antics of the married couple who've been my friends for years. I sure as hell hope Elliot and I don't wind up like this.

"We ready to go?" Dana raises one eyebrow.

"I look okay?" Chris looks back at his wife. "I've got a change of clothes in the car . . . "

"You're fine," she tells him, briskly, tightening the knot in his tie again. He looks like the generic male cop in a dark suit and a pale shirt, but he looks fine.

"Fine. Let's go." Dana nods. "So we'll see you guys at the church!" She calls back, to her mother, father and brothers, who are just guests in today.

Don, Maureen and I squeeze into the back of one car, Kathleen, Lizzie and Dana in the other. Chris is following us, in his own car, with his daughter.

Sirens wail and we begin to move. Here we go.

I'm standing, nervously, in the church. I don't understand just why I'm nervous about this. It's no big deal. The guest list is small - Elliot's family, a few friends, John and Fin, and Casey, and most of my best friend's family, who in a way, were my family, when I was growing up. I didn't want a big wedding and he agreed with me.

"Breathe." Dana comes up behind me, grinning. "Hey, girls. This is our cue." She shifts the flowers into her hands, rolling her eyes at me. Growing up in a house full of boys, flowers and dresses are definitely _not _her thing.

As my maid of honor, she goes first. Followed by Maureen, Kathleen and her daughter, Amy. Lizzie follows, as the flower girl. It worried me, that at twelve, she might have thought she was too old to be a flower girl. But she didn't seem to mind.

Don comes up beside me. "Still breathing?" He questions and I shake my head, smiling.

I reach up and pull the veil over my face and he takes my arm as the first few strains of music reach our ears.

As I make my way down the aisle, I catch Elliot's stare as he stands just in front of his three older brothers and his son. I smile and he just keeps staring.

It feels like I've been walking for hours. When we finally reach the end of the aisle, Don gives me a quick, tight hug and moves away to sit in the pew where my parents would have sat.

But I don't remember anything after that. I just remember looking into blue eyes, the whole time. I vaguely remember saying the vows. Sliding the ring on his finger. But my focus is on him. I can't believe this is happening. I still don't think it's for real.

When Elliot reaches for me, and he leans in to kiss me, I know it's real. He's here. The group of friends and family that's been watching this whole thing starts to clap and I swear I hear a few cheers that sound like they belong to a certain group of perpetual pains-in-the-asses. But I don't care.

When we finally step out of the church, confetti starts flying. I'm grabbed by a few people for hugs. Here we are, back on the streets of Manhattan. Traffic's going by and no one seems to notice the fact that a wedding's just ended.

After the first few hugs are over, I notice one of the marked squad cars that brought me here. Someone's created a heart that screams "Just Married!" in red lettering. It's been attached to the back of the car.

I shake my head and Elliot grins. "C'mon." He kisses me again, and then, somehow, we manage to squeeze into the back. The officer sitting in the front seat grins at us. "Never been in the back of one of these, eh, Detectives?"

"Nope." I reply, reaching for Elliot's hand. He squeezes it and then lifts it up, to kiss it.

"Ah, damn. Not lovebirds." The uniformed man pretends to roll his eyes at us, jokingly and flips the siren to life.

The first place we stop is to take pictures, in the park. Then it's out to where we decided to hold the reception - a rented church hall in Queens.

I have the time to hug a few more people and talk to a few, before we cut the cake. Dana's father recommended a bakery from the neighborhood where he grew up. And it looks fantastic. A steady clinking starts to go up around the room and I look at Elliot. He shrugs and picks up a piece of cake, offering it to me. I take it from his fingers, taking a minute to chew and swallow before I do the same to him.

Then it's time for the traditional toss of the bouquet. There's a group of women and teenage girls behind me, as I toss the small bunch of flowers over one shoulder. When I turn around, I see my fifteen-year-old goddaughter has caught it, with reflexes born out of playing on her high school basketball team.

Amy blinks at me and I smile. "C'mere, you." I pull her in for a hug and let her to back to sit with her parents and grandparents.

The DJ calls Elliot and I onto the floor. Our first dance as a married couple.

"Liv?" He murmurs, looking me square in the eye as we move, together. He can dance, I realize, startled. I've met few men his age who actually dance.

"Hmm?"

"You're crying," he murmurs, taking his hand off my waist to brush it against my cheek.

I realize I am. And I promised myself I wasn't going to cry today.

"Happy?" His voice is soft in my ear, as I pull him closer, so I can lean against him.

"Um-hm."

"That's good." He tips my head up and pulls me in to kiss me. This is all that matters. Us. I'll dance with Don and probably most of the guys in the room tonight, but I don't think I'll remember.

Later on, as I sit to catch my breath, after having danced with four of Dana's brothers in a row, I see my best friend has left her husband's side and seems to be buried in heated debate with Munch. Oh, shit. This is bad. I have a feeling that it won't end.

"Dana's made Munch's acquaintance, huh?" Elliot comments, sitting beside me.

"Yep. Be prepared - I think this'll go on the whole night."

He grins. "You wanna dance again?"

"I'm trying to catch my breath here," I reply. "Maureen's all alone over there - why don't you guys go do the dad-daughter thing."

I watch his eyes flicker to his oldest, who's standing against the wall, alone. "Did you tell her to bring a date?"

"Um-hm. I told her she could," I answer, kicking off my shoes and shoving them under the chair I'm sitting on, temporarily.

I watch him grin, as I do that. "What? You wear heels this long and tell me your feet don't hurt."

He shakes his head, as Dickie approaches his oldest sister. Maureen grins and steps out onto the floor with him. "Looks like she's got a dance partner," I smile, slightly.

"What about me?" Elliot glances at me, blue eyes fixed on mine.

"You're not that cute," I inform him. "Not cute enough for me to put those damned shoes back on just yet."

"Who says you have to?"

I roll my eyes at him. "Fine. C'mon." I let him lead me out from the wall and onto the wooden floor.

"You never seemed interested in dancing when we'd go out," I point out, as he slips his arms around me.

"I thought I'd surprise you." He gives me that classic grin of his and kisses me again. "You happy now?"

"Um-hm. Very. But this whole bride thing - isn't that for the glowing twenty-something - not an almost-forty something cop?"

He laughs in my ear, quietly. "You looked like the glowing twenty-something today, Liv."

"That's why you were staring?"

"No. You were beautiful. But you were glowing."

"What am I gonna do with you?" I demand. "Next thing I know you're gonna be reading me poetry."

He laughs again. "Maybe." Elliot takes my hand and rubs a finger over the ring there. "Looks good there. Y'know, there should've always been a ring there. Someone should've made you happy a long time ago."

"How about you shut up and do it now?" I suggest, pointedly. There's no point in thinking about what happened before. Okay, so we're a little late getting to this, but we're going to be happy.


End file.
